


Do You Hear The People Sing?

by ebi_pers



Series: Please Leave All Drama On The Stage [3]
Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Songfic-ish?, rini - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 94,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23692762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebi_pers/pseuds/ebi_pers
Summary: It's a new school year and Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen are looking forward to it. They've finally got each other. They're co-directing the musical. The drama of last year seems to be behind them, and lately even their relationships with EJ and Gina seem to be improving. They're almost (not quite) friends. This year should flow as easily as a song. Too bad the new superintendent is intent on changing the key...
Relationships: Big Red/Ashlyn Caswell, Ricky Bowen/Nini Salazar-Roberts
Series: Please Leave All Drama On The Stage [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673623
Comments: 256
Kudos: 271





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am BEYOND excited to share this with you, and I just couldn't contain myself. I've been on a huge writing kick lately and I'm so happy with where it's taken me. Thank you all for coming on this ride with me so far, and I hope you'll enjoy what I've got in store for this story as well. T-rating is for language, alcohol, and some implied adult relations (nothing explicit or even vaguely graphic). 
> 
> As a basic run-down, this is set a few weeks after Nini gets back from her conference in LA. The new school year is starting up, but some complications may ruin her plans for a smooth, easy year. You'll notice I've gone back to third-person POV. I wrote two drafts of this: one in first-person and one in third. My original plan was to tell this story in first-person from the POVs of Ricky, Nini, Gina, and EJ, but I found that it was difficult to differentiate their voices and even harder to tell the story I wanted to tell within the limits of a first-person narrative. So I've gone back to third person. I think it works better.
> 
> As always, I would love your feedback. You've all been so kind and thoughtful in your comments and they always give me things to consider as I look to improve my writing. So without further ado, I present to you the prologue of "Do You Hear The People Sing."

“ _ Ricky _ !” Nini cries, swatting his hand away from the cooling rack full of mini quiches. “Those are for the party!” 

He looks at her with that lopsided smirk that never fails to weaken her resolve just a little. He dries his hair with one hand while reaching for another pastry with the other, seizing it quickly and popping it into his mouth over her protests.

“I’m providing a valuable service, Neens,” he says, mouth full. 

“And what service is that?” she asks, hands on hips, one eyebrow arched as she tries not to smile. 

“Taste tester,” he answers. “One bad mini quiche could kill somebody. I, for one, am willing to take that risk.” He reaches for another, but her warning glare is enough to make him alter his course. His hand instead lands on her shoulder. He dusts some flour off her t-shirt.  _ His  _ t-shirt, technically. “Why don’t you go get ready?” he suggests. “I’ll wash the dishes.” 

She glances at the clock on the stove. 3:29. They’re supposed to be at Ashlyn’s by 5. “Can I trust you to be left alone in the kitchen with all these appetizers?” she taunts. 

Ricky eyes the cooling rack. “I don’t know how long I can resist, babe,” he sighs dramatically. “So don’t take too long.” 

Nini chuckles and takes the towel from his shoulder, teasing her hands through his damp curls. “I believe in you,” she says, stealing a quick kiss and heading for the bathroom. 

* * *

Ricky steps quietly into the bedroom a half hour later, his fingers pruney from scrubbing the mixing bowls and rolling pins and baking sheets. Nini stands before the full-length mirror in boy shorts and a tank top, running a brush through her hair and humming. He can’t place the song. If she notices his presence, she doesn’t let on. He eases himself onto the end of her bed, feeling it dip slightly. It is  _ her  _ bed, he has to remind himself, because technically  _ his  _ bed is still in  _ his  _ room in  _ his  _ apartment. But he can’t deny that for months now, Nini’s condo has felt more like home to him.

_ You and I _ . It strikes him suddenly. She’s humming Ingrid Michaelson and brushing her hair and Ricky has to remind himself to breathe. He starts to fill in the words in his head.  _ Let’s get rich and buy our parents homes in the south of France. Let’s get rich and give everybody nice sweaters and teach them how to dance... _

“What?” 

“Huh?” He looks up, startled to find that Nini has turned around, a self-conscious blush rising from her neck to her cheeks. 

“You just had this look on your face,” Nini says. 

“Just...thinking, that’s all,” he says quietly. 

“About?” 

He rises from the bed and closes the distance between them. “You,” he replies. His smile is soft, his eyes earnest and almost pleading. Like he’s begging her to understand something language can’t convey.

She doesn’t have a response. She never has a response when he looks at her like this, so she presses against him for a moment and then pulls away and crosses to the closet. She turns around for a moment and appraises his outfit: a white, short-sleeved button-down, pale blue khakis. A summery outfit for the last day of summer break. She pulls out a red sundress because she knows he loves the way she looks in red.

* * *

It rained earlier that morning, and the humidity in the air is palpable. Steam rises off the asphalt like a pressure cooker. Ricky can feel his curls winding tighter and prays he doesn’t sweat through his shirt before they get to the party. They take Nini’s car, though she lets him drive. He instinctively reaches to roll down the windows and open the sunroof, then thinks better of it and cranks up the air conditioning instead.

Ricky pulls the car into the closest visitor’s parking space. They’d been to Ashlyn’s house on move-in day, when they’d helped carry boxes from the U-Haul, up the front steps, and into the end-unit townhome. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it’s clear that Ashlyn has been busy. The white bricks have been power-washed. The flower boxes outside the first floor window are freshly-planted with violets. The blue shutters have been straightened and the matching blue paint on the front door has been refreshed. The house looks stately, as if it was plucked from some English countryside and deposited right in the middle of Salt Lake City. 

Nini balances the tray of mini quiches precariously while sliding her purse into the crook of her arm and trying to shut the passenger door with her foot. Ricky lifts the aluminum tray from her hands before it can fall to the pavement. 

“We worked hard on these, babe,” he teases. “Don’t drop ‘em!” 

“ _ We _ ?” Nini snorts, taking the tray back from him. He offers her his arm and they proceed up the steps together. A blue elder tree shades the path to Ashlyn’s front door, but it offers little relief from the stifling humidity. 

Ashlyn swings the door open before they can even ring the bell. “You guys made it!” she says ecstatically, pushing the storm door open and ushering them inside. 

“We brought appetizers,” Nini holds the tray out like an offering. “Mini quiches. Vegan and gluten-free, so everyone can have them.” 

“This is why I invite you guys,” Ash says, amber eyes twinkling as she accepts the aluminum tray with one hand and wraps her free arm around Nini, then Ricky, in a welcoming hug. It’s perhaps Ricky’s favorite thing about Ashlyn: the way she somehow manages to make everyone feel like they are integral to the party. As if she was simply waiting patiently for them to arrive before beginning anything.

Ricky hands her a sparkling silver bag. “The quiches are for the party. This is for you.” The bottle of wine was Ricky’s idea. Ashlyn may have thrown the party to mark the end of summer break and the start of the new school year, but it’s also a housewarming of sorts, and his parents taught him never to show up empty-handed. 

Ashlyn slides the bottle out of the bag. “Strawberry! My favorite! How’d you know?” 

Ricky turns to look at Nini. “It was a team effort,” he says. 

“You guys are the best. Seriously, thank you. I’m gonna find a corkscrew. Go mingle!” 

Nini ditches her wedge sandals by the door. It’s a habit she learned from Mama D, one that he’s since picked up. He remembers the mortification he felt when he first met her moms and tracked the outside dirt on his soles all over their pristine hardwood floors. Nini had to quietly tell him to remove his shoes. Mama D didn’t want to embarrass him. Since then, whether bidden by the host or not, he removes his shoes upon entering. He follows Nini into the living room in socked feet. 

* * *

“Dude,” Big Red claps Ricky on the back and vaults over the back of the couch, landing beside him. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“I know,” Ricky replies guiltily. Lately, he and Big Red have been on opposite schedules, and despite the fact that they’re ostensibly roommates, they’ve hardly seen each other. He’s acutely aware that he spends most nights at Nini’s. And if he doesn’t, Red’s usually in bed by the time he gets home. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Red replies easily. Amiably. “I get it.” His eyes drift toward Ashlyn, who is refilling the chip bowl, and for a moment, Ricky almost wishes Red would yell at him instead. 

His best friend is understanding and agreeable to a fault. In their years together as roommates - first in college, and now - they’ve never had a single fight. With Big Red, there’s no problem in the world that can’t be solved with a shrug of the shoulders and a well-timed joke. And it’s precisely this do-what-you-please attitude that makes Ricky feel even guiltier. Because forgiveness should be hard-won, and yet Big Red dispenses it like candy. Other people take advantage of it, and he knows it, and he’s  _ okay  _ with other people taking advantage of it. (“Choosing to forgive people reflects on me, Ricky. If they choose to take advantage of that, that reflects on them.”) Ricky Bowen always swore he’d never take advantage of his best friend. 

It’s not that he’s blowing Big Red off. He’s never been the type to sacrifice his friendships for the sake of a relationship. He’s an extrovert. He needs people.

But Nini is new and extraordinary. Five months felt like blinking, and yet it also felt like a lifetime. With Nini, there’s something new to discover every day, and he wants to unearth all of those discoveries. He wants to store them away for safekeeping and pull them out years from now, when he can revisit them and reminisce with her. 

“You and Nini…” Big Red is grinning sideways at him, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Any Baby Bowens on the horizon? Because you know I’ll be a kickass godfather.” 

Ricky laughs, a sincere, from-the-diaphragm laugh, and gives the redhead a playful shove. It’s the kind of thing only Big Red could say and get away with. 

“Seriously, I’m happy for you,” his best friend says. “You guys are really great together.” 

Ricky smiles and opens his mouth to make a joke about Big Red and Ashlyn, and all the redheaded babies they would have, but he refrains when he spots their hostess approaching. She hands Big Red a Polaroid camera and flashes a big grin at both of them.

“Going old-school tonight,” she says, “Make some memories.” 

* * *

Nini looks up as a camera flash from the living room draws her eye. She smiles to herself as she spots Ricky making all manner of ridiculous faces at Big Red, who angles the camera every which way. She’s positive he’ll appear photogenic no matter what face he makes, and no matter how crooked Big Red’s camerawork is. 

She feels a tap on her shoulder and turns just as Kourtney presses a red solo cup into her hand. Nini sniffs at it suspiciously. 

Kourtney scrunches her face up at her. “Damn, you really think I’d poison you or something?” she taunts.

Nini giggles. “I dunno, Kourt. Remember when you visited me at college for my twenty-first?” 

Kourtney holds her hands up in surrender. “Listen, that was a one-time deal, okay? I learned from my mistake. Kourtney’s Jungle Juice has never made a reappearance. Besides, how was I supposed to know your tolerance was  _ that  _ low?” 

“You dumped  _ Everclear  _ in it!” Nini counters. She takes a tentative sip of the drink and is surprised at how sweet it tastes. “This actually isn’t that bad!” 

“It’s mostly juice,” her best friend replies, patting her arm. “Do I know you or do I know you?” Nini takes the Sharpie off the table and writes her name across the bottom of the cup in a loopy script. 

“Hey,” Gina approaches hesitantly, cup held to her lips like a shield. 

“Hi,” Nini’s face softens. She hasn’t seen Gina since the conference a few weeks ago, and she isn’t sure where they stand. Evidently Gina isn’t, either. Before they left the hotel and took their separate flights home, she was sure they were on the road to becoming friends. But they haven’t seen or even texted one another since they’d gotten back.

Kourtney glances between the two women, clearly debating whether she’ll need to referee a verbal sparring match, or possibly start one on her best friend’s behalf. Nini had told Kourtney all about the strange three-day not-quite-vacation, and all the things she’d learned about Gina that cast her in a new light. But her best friend has always been suspicious, and she’s always been the perfect counterbalance to Nini’s more trusting (Kourtney would say naive) nature. 

“Leopards don’t change their spots, Nini,” she’d said. “And snakes don’t change their scales.” Nini had to point out that snakes shed their skin regularly, emerging semi-new. Maybe people could do the same. 

Ashlyn bounds over to them with the tray of mini quiches and sets them down on the table. “Dig in, girls!” she says, and Nini knows it’s mostly to defuse the awkward tension that’s settled over the group. 

“So,” Nini turns to Gina, trying to force breezy casualness into her tone. “Ready for school tomorrow?” 

“No,” Gina laughs a little too hard. “I mean, it’ll be nice to be back in a routine but I feel like I never appreciate summer till it’s over.” 

“I know what you mean!” Nini replies, punctuating the statement with an exaggerated laugh of her own.  _ Way too much enthusiasm there, Neens.  _

Silence descends upon the group once more and Nini stares into the depths of her cup, inspecting the deep red tint of the cranberry juice.

Kourtney sizes Gina up. “I like your pants,” she finally says. “They’re really flattering on you.” It’s as close to an olive branch as Gina will get, and Nini is a little surprised that Kourtney offered even that much. 

Gina looks surprised, too, and glances down at her black high-waisted pants. “Oh! Thanks! I’ve had them forever. I actually forgot where I got them...” 

“You should come by the boutique sometime,” Kourtney suggests sincerely. “We could get you into some really nice fits. Might even hook you up with a nice discount.” 

Ashlyn saunters over, putting a hand on Kourtney’s shoulder. “How’s your company doing?” she inserts herself easily into the conversation. “I heard you had a new line debuting?” 

Kourtney’s face lights up and any awkwardness left in the group dissipates. “I’m launching a new sportswear line in New York,” she says proudly.

“Yes,” Gina exults, “I  _ live  _ in leggings.” 

Kourtney seizes on this and continues to elaborate on her new line, gesturing animatedly. Nini lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

* * *

The doorbell rings just after 7 o’clock. Nini frowns. “Who’s that? Everyone’s here.”

“Not everyone,” Ashlyn smiles knowingly as she goes to the front door, pulling it back to reveal a blond-haired young man grinning behind oval, tortoise-shell eyeglasses. 

“Seb!” Nini exclaims, and a round of cheers goes up around the room. After the success of the musical, the board had approved adding dance classes to East High’s catalog of PE electives, and Seb had been brought on part-time.

A dark haired young man squeezes into view. “And Carlos!”

“Fashionably late, as always,” Ashlyn rolls her eyes good-naturedly and steps aside to let the pair enter.

“We would’ve been on-time but  _ somebody’s  _ cow got loose,” Carlos huffs, turning to look at Seb. His tone is more amused than upset.

Seb smiles sheepishly. “Technically it was a bull…” 

“And what is a bull, Sebby?” Carlos asks. 

Seb rolls his eyes and chuckles. Clearly they’ve already had this discussion. “A male -”

“That’s right, a man cow,” Carlos interrupts. “Anyway, we spent forty-five minutes trying to catch Seb’s runaway bull. But it doesn’t matter. We’re here now!” 

Nini is the first to wrap the pair in a hug after Ashlyn, and she seems especially thrilled to see Carlos. Ricky’s not surprised. Before opening night, he’d never met Carlos in person. But he’d heard plenty about him. Prior to his departure to pursue his Broadway ambitions, Carlos and Nini were close confidants. And he’d happily lent a hand when they needed it during last year’s show. As far as Ricky’s concerned, he’s already practically family.

“When did you get here? What are you doing here?” Nini asks.

Carlos shrugs. “I got in last night. I was just in town visiting family. And friends,” he shares a look with Seb and then lets his eyes pass over the rest of the room. “So obviously when Seb told me Ashlyn was having a little party, I knew I had to crash.” 

“No such thing as crashing,” Ashlyn tuts. “Everyone’s welcome in this house.” 

* * *

“What never fails to liven up the party?” Ricky rereads the black Cards Against Humanity card, then reaches for the options that EJ, Big Red, and Seb have placed down. He stifles a laugh as his eyes skim the first one.“Some douche with an acoustic guitar.” 

“Did you just get called out?” EJ laughs.

“I think he did,” Big Red agrees and Ricky chuckles gamely.

Nini looks on as her boyfriend reads the other two aloud and judges “Some douche with an acoustic guitar” to be the winner. Seb pumps his fist in victory. 

Carlos slides onto the couch beside her. “So you’ve been busy,” he says, following her gaze and watching the card game unfold.

“What do you mean?” Nini asks. 

“I mean that when I left Salt Lake City, you were dating Eric James Caswell and when I come back, you’re getting all handsy with your co-director. I mean, I get it. Ricky’s adorable. And if you didn’t kick EJ to the curb after what he did, I would’ve flown back from New York just to yell at you in person. But it’s been months without an update besides Facebook telling me you’re official. How are you doing?” 

“Things are good. Maybe even great,” she says. And it’s true. Things are good, maybe even great. Ricky has a way of making her feel weightless, to the point that she’s scared she might actually float away one day if she’s not careful. Ricky can make her heart flutter just by strumming a few chords on a guitar. He can stop her heart just by slouching in the chair by the window, the sunlight falling at just the right angle to bring out the blond highlights in his hair. When she lies down beside him at night, she feels safe. And all of these things are beautiful, and there are moments - more often than not - when she’s  _ so  _ sure that Ricky Bowen is her future. But then she tries to tell him she loves him and the words won’t come out. Or she tries to get him to say it first, and he doesn’t get the hint.

“But…?” Carlos presses.

Nini shakes her head to clear her thoughts. “But what?” 

“You said ‘things are good, maybe even great’ and then you went all moon-eyed, but it sounded like there was a ‘but’ coming,” Carlos says. 

“No ‘buts,’” Nini insists, forcing a smile.

Carlos nods slowly, disbelievingly. “Uh-huh. And how are  _ you _ ?” he asks. 

“I’m good,” she answers. “I’m so excited to be directing the musical once more this year. Definitely gonna need your advice again, though, so expect plenty of frantic texts and emails.” 

“Please. After what you pulled off with  _ Beauty and the Beast _ , I should be coming to you for advice. You’ve got the skills. You’ve got the talent. You’ve got a crack team behind you. You don’t need me, Nini Salazar-Roberts. Of course I’ll be around, but between you and Ricky? You’ve got this.” 

* * *

“Alright, kiddies, it’s pong time,” EJ calls. 

“Foolishness,” Kourtney shakes her head, but makes no move to stop him.

“This is my  _ home _ , not a frat house,” Ashlyn says with mock indignity.

EJ holds up his hands and grins. “Relax, Ash, it’s water. Drinking is totally optional. Now, who wants to take a shot at the king?” He easily dodges the ping pong ball his cousin chucks at him. 

“I’ll take a shot,” Gina stands up gamely and saunters toward the dining table. 

“Careful,” Carlos warns, “I know you’re still pretty new here, but EJ’s the reigning pong champion of the East High staff.” 

“Hey! Shush! She said she’ll play, let her play,” EJ protests good-naturedly. “Alright, I need a teammate,” he surveys the room, his eyes falling on Ricky. “Ricky! C’mon!”

“M-me?” the music teacher sputters. EJ’s tone is casual, but he can’t escape the feeling that the choice was a calculated one. What he can’t figure out is why. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never played pong before…” 

“Oh, he’s  _ definitely  _ played pong before,” Big Red confirms, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he nudges Ricky toward the table. 

Seeing this, Nini sets down her drink and raises her hand. “I’ll be on Gina’s team.” There’s a glint in her eye that Ricky knows all-too-well. It’s the same look she had when he took her to Dave & Buster’s and she obliterated him at air hockey. It’s her hypercompetitive look, but he’s not sure if it’s directed playfully at him or vengefully at her ex-boyfriend.

In truth, he’s not even sure if Nini harbors any vengeful feelings for EJ at all. He knows it’s complicated, that her feelings on her ex have waxed and waned over the months since they broke up. And while Ricky hasn’t gone out of his way to befriend the PE teacher, he hasn’t outright tried to avoid him either. Nini, on the other hand, kept her distance all through the remainder of the school year. He never presses her on it. He knows better than to pick at a healing wound. Besides, he doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea: that he’s jealous of what she and EJ had. 

Gina swaggers toward the table, and Ricky can’t tell if it’s bravado or genuine confidence. Either way, it intimidates him ever-so-slightly. He’s never been good at beer pong. He’d played back in college, of course. Dorm party shits and giggles, mostly. Raucous events that inevitably ended with an RA knocking and shutting them down. The stakes were low, then. He barely knew most of the people there, and the alcohol made everyone an equally lousy player. He’s pretty sure he’s setting himself up for embarrassment in front of not only his coworkers, but also his best friend and his girlfriend. 

EJ rolls the two ping pong balls across the dining table. “Ladies first.”

“How generous,” Gina says with flourish, lifting her ball and lining it up. She squints, shuts one eye, then the other, and makes a big show of aiming. Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, the projectile sails through the air and lands cleanly in the first cup. 

Nini lets out a celebratory gasp and high-fives her teammate. “Ready, babe?” she asks. Her eyes are locked with Ricky’s, but they both catch the noise EJ makes. As if his mouth is about to respond before his brain can catch up.

“Bring it on,” Ricky says, hoping he sounds more confident than he is. 

Nini’s toss arcs a little too high and ends up smacking Ricky in the nose, an unintended consequence that nonetheless sets the whole room laughing. 

EJ fishes the ping pong ball out of the red solo cup as Ricky lines up his shot. It goes wide, whizzing past Nini’s head and bouncing several times across the floor. He can feel his face flushing with embarrassment, but EJ says nothing. He raises the second ball and lines it up with the precision of a basketball player on the three-point line. It arcs and lands perfectly in a cup. 

“Looks like we’re even,” he says to Gina. 

“For now,” she shrugs, handing off one of the balls to Nini and keeping one for herself.

It continues this way for a while, Ricky and Nini trading potshots that go nowhere while EJ and Gina volley back and forth, sinking cup after cup. Eventually, Ricky and Nini cut their losses and join the rest of their friends on the sideline, turning the match into a one-on-one. 

EJ hurls a ping pong ball. It runs around the rim of Gina’s second-to-last cup before falling in. He grins cockily as she takes aim and gets a clean shot, leveling the playing field. For the first time, EJ actually looks a little doubtful. He throws the first ping pong ball and it brushes the side of Gina’s cup. His second bounces off the rim and clatters harmlessly to the floor. 

“C’mon, Gina, you’ve got this in the bag!” Ashlyn calls. 

Gina grins, winds up, and fires the ping pong ball directly at EJ’s last cup. It lands with a  _ splash _ and the room erupts into cheers and cries of ecstatic disbelief. Gina does her best imitation of a Usain Bolt victory pose. 

EJ crosses over to her side of the table, his smile self-deprecating. 

“Looks like there’s a new reigning queen,” Gina says. Her smirk is smug but playful. 

“Good game,” he concedes, shaking her hand. “How’d you do that?” 

She shrugs. “Basic math and physics. It’s all about the trajectory,” she flexes her wrist and mimics throwing a ping pong ball once more.

“You ever thought about coaching girls’ basketball? With you at the helm, East High could probably hold the state titles for boys and girls…” 

“Tempting,” Gina says. “But I think I’ll stick to robots and math contests and let you take care of the court.” 

* * *

The party is starting to wind down. It’s past 10 o’clock and everyone has work the next day, but Nini decides to have one last drink for the night. She offers to get one for Ricky, too, but he turns her down. He’s driving. Better safe than sorry. 

Ashlyn’s kitchen looks like the set of a cooking show: white cabinets, dark countertops, but the wadded-up napkins and the mostly-consumed veggie platter look more like a scene from  _ Hoarders: Buried Alive _ . Nini reaches into the fridge and plucks out a wine cooler. 

She shuts the door and jumps back when she finds EJ standing on the other side. “Whoa!” 

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“I-it’s fine,” Nini recovers, crossing to the island and picking up the bottle opener. “I was just getting a drink.” 

“Yeah, me too,” he replies, pulling the fridge open once more and drawing out a beer. 

She hands him the bottle opener wordlessly and he pries the top off his drink. For a moment they stand there, Nini leaning against the island and feeling Doritos crumbs crunching against the small of her back while EJ stands across from her, shoulder propped against the fridge as he takes a long swig. It occurs to Nini that this is probably the longest she’s been alone with him since the breakup. She eyes the bright pink drink in her hand and feels a little nauseated.

“So…” she says, if only to fill the silence. 

“Kinda weird, huh?” EJ says, letting out a rueful chuckle.

“Little bit.” 

He shakes his head and takes another pull from the bottle. Nini sets hers down on the counter, momentarily chiding herself for wasting a perfectly good drink that someone else could have taken. She begins gathering up the napkins and salsa-streaked paper plates to busy herself, depositing them in the nearby garbage can. “I’m gonna…” her voice trails off as she looks in the direction of the living room, the sound of laughter erupting from the group. 

“Wait, Nini,” EJ says, and she freezes. She hasn’t heard him speak her name in months. “Look, I get that it’s still weird between us. I know I fucked up our friendship. And I was serious about wanting to un-fuck it.”

“You wanna un-fuck what, now?” Ashlyn interrupts. Nini hadn’t noticed her sweep into the kitchen. The redhead brushes crumbs from the countertop and starts throwing out empty chip bags as if that was the only reason she’d come in the first place. 

“Ash, could you...give us a minute?” her cousin requests, his eyes fixed on the floor. Nini knows him well enough to know that he’s already embarrassed. Having his cousin bear witness to this conversation will only mortify him.

“Uh, sure,” she locks eyes with him and Nini can see some sort of message pass between them. Then she turns her eyes on her, and the message is very clear.  _ I’ll be in the dining room.  _ She breezes out of the room, but Nini can see her lingering by the dining table. Just in case. 

“You were saying?” Nini turns back to EJ.

He shakes his head. “Right. I was saying… You seem really happy with Ricky. And I’m happy for you, Nini. He’s a really lucky guy to have you and it looks like he knows it.”

She isn’t sure how to respond. It’s not exactly the statement she expected from EJ, whose jealousy led him to betray her in the first place. Even though he’d come to her doorstep, apologetic and looking to repair their friendship, she’d somehow doubted that he was only interested in rekindling their relationship platonically. Now she isn’t so sure.

“We used to tell each other things, Nini,” EJ continues. “Before we ever dated or anything, we used to just talk. Remember that?” 

She nods. For two short months before their relationship began, they talked. It had always bordered on flirtatious, and the attraction between them was pretty clear from the beginning. But EJ told her about his childhood. He talked about his time in college. His injury. His feelings. And he continued to tell her these things for the majority of their relationship. It wasn’t the kind of thing he normally talked about with others. She’s met his friends. She knows they’re useless when it comes to anything of substance. And so she can only imagine how lonely he must be now that she’s gone. 

In an odd way, she misses it, too. A year of her life belongs with EJ. A year's worth of laughter and tears and inside jokes and kisses and growth and secrets shared between just the two of them. She doesn't miss the person she was then. But she does miss the connection. She misses the time when she could genuinely call EJ one of her best friends and not a near-stranger. 

“I miss those times," EJ confesses. "I miss being friends. So I guess what I’m saying is, I’m happy that you’re happy with Ricky. I really am. And I swear I’m not trying to come between you guys. I learned my lesson about that the first time. But if you need anything, I’m always here for you, Nini. And I hope that maybe we’ll be friends again. But if you’d rather not speak to me ever again, I’ll respect that, too.” 

Nini opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again. Her mind is blank. She’s not sure what to tell him. It’s not that she never wants to speak to him again. But she can’t quite bring herself to take his words at face value anymore. Still, if Gina could change for the better… 

“Right,” EJ says softly, trying to hide his stung tone and ducking slightly as he starts for the living room. 

“Wait,” Nini calls after him. He stops and wheels around. “EJ, I don’t want to never talk to you again. That’s not it at all. That night you came to apologize, you asked me if I thought we’d ever be able to be friends again...” 

“And you said maybe,” he remembers. His tone is eager.

She nods. “I stand by that. But I also told you that it’s gonna take work, and I stand by that as well.” 

For a moment, EJ is quiet and pensive. Then he brightens. “I’ve never been afraid of a little work.” There’s a hint of the old EJ in his smile. The look he would always get whenever he sought her approval. She used to heap praise on him, just to see that boyish grin. He lingers a moment longer before making his way back out to the living room. She watches his retreating back.

* * *

As the party comes to an end, Ashlyn grabs Nini and pulls her toward the couch. “Wait! Before you go, we need pictures!” 

“Do we have to?” Carlos questions. “I’m not exactly camera-ready.” 

“Oh, hush, you’re beautiful,” Ashlyn insists. “And yes we have to! We need documented historical evidence of the best group of friends a girl could ask for. Let’s do ladies first?” 

She plops down on the couch beside Nini and ushers for Kourtney and Gina to join them. The four women squeeze into the shot as Big Red directs their movements. 

“Kourtney, a little more to your right. And you, Gina. More. More. C’mon, guys, act like you like each other,” their photographer huffs, until they’re practically on top of one another: Gina perched on the arm of the couch and leaning precariously into Nini, Kourtney doing the same to Ashlyn. “Perfect! Three, two, one.” A bright flash discharges from the camera and a moment later, the photo prints. 

“Okay, now give me funny faces,” Big Red instructs.

Kourtney reaches around Ashlyn and throws up bunny ears behind Nini’s head while crossing her eyes. Ashlyn curls her upper lip, exposing her top teeth while Nini sticks her tongue out and Gina scrunches her face up. Big Red just manages to snap a photo before they collapse into a fit of giggles. 

“You gotta give me a copy of that,” Gina tells Ashlyn.

They take a guys’ photo next. Carlos, for all his protesting, poses across the laps of Seb, Ricky, Big Red, and EJ with a charming smile. A round of group photos follows with the camera on self-timer, positioned carefully on a stack of coffee table books. Ricky leans over the back of the couch behind Nini, and she reaches behind her to rest one hand against his cheek, pressing him closer to her.

Ashlyn takes the printout and lays it to rest on the table. “Everyone will receive copies of their photos in their faculty mailboxes tomorrow. And if you don’t have the good fortune of working with us, I will send your copies home with a messenger.” 

* * *

It’s nearly eleven by the time they finish helping clean up and leave Ashlyn’s house. Ricky helps Nini into the car and then crosses around to the driver’s side. By then, she’s already half-asleep, her head leaning against the window. In a few hours, they’ll be up again and getting ready for work. Nini doesn’t typically like to make predictions about the school year for fear of jinxing it, but as Ricky pilots the Ford Focus out of Ashlyn’s development, she feels her heart swell just a little.  _ It’s going to be a good year. _


	2. Something's Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the incredible feedback you've given me so far. It's been so uplifting to see how you've all responded to the prologue and I'm thrilled to share the first true chapter with you. I've decided that, in order to try to tie everything into the musical theme, each chapter will be named after a song off a Broadway soundtrack. The songs themselves may not always accurately reflect the events of the chapter, but the names will all work. So Chapter 1 is "Something's Coming." What show is it from? Take a guess, let me know if you're right in a comment. I'll post the correct answer at the end.
> 
> So without further ado, I present to you: "Do You Hear the People Sing."

There is a brief moment of bliss when Ricky awakens and finds Nini asleep on her side next to him, wearing one of his t-shirts even though this is her condo and she’s got a closet full of her own clothes right there. He’s gotten used to this room: the powder blue walls, the way the memory foam mattress molds around his body and hers, the gauzy white curtains, and the sound of Nini’s deep, even breathing. Dread fills him when he notices the time, written out in glaring, red letters on the digital alarm clock on Nini’s side of the bed. 5:59. 

In one minute, the alarm will go off, and summer will be over. The scramble will begin as they both try to get ready for work simultaneously, angling for elbow room at the only sink in the only bathroom. He’ll make faces at her in the mirror while he brushes his teeth and she’ll laugh as she tries to hip-check him out of the way so she can brush her hair. They’ll take their coffee to go, maybe toast some bread if they have time. They’ll contemplate whose car to take, or if they should just take separate cars today. It’s a familiar routine, one they perfected in the final few months of the previous school year, when spending the night at her place became the default. Falling back into it will be easy, like remembering the words to a favorite song. And yet, with thirty seconds left before the first day of the new school year begins, Ricky finds himself willing time to freeze, or at least slow down. 

The alarm clock blares its angry, insistent chime and Nini lets out a noise that’s halfway between a gasp and a groan as her hand instinctively fumbles for the snooze button. Ricky catches her wrist mid-air and eases it back down against the pillow, brushing the pad of his thumb over her fingers and tracing the jagged edges of her chipped nail polish. 

“First day of school,” he chides her playfully, reaching past her to switch the alarm off. “No snoozing today.” 

Nini sighs and rolls onto her back. Her eyelids flutter open, dark eyelashes parting so that he’s greeted with the deep, warm brown of her irises. “How bad would it be to call out on the first day?” she questions, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Probably very,” he answers, and though he knows the question is one of Nini’s hypotheticals, he’s tempted to try it out if it means staying in bed beside her all day. 

“I guess we should get ready then,” she huffs, slowly rising to a sitting position. 

“I guess so,” Ricky hums, easing himself off the mattress. They stand on opposite sides of the bed, straightening out the sheet. He’s learned by now that Nini likes to turn down the bed in the morning - something about having it all ready for them at night - and he instinctively folds the sheet down part-way in tandem with her. 

“Dibs on showering first,” he declares, an impish smirk on his face. 

“Oh no you don’t!” Nini says, practically vaulting over the bed and racing for the door. He makes a half-hearted attempt to intercept her, but she slips from his grasp and has just enough time to taunt him before she’s down the hall and in the bathroom. He glances at the clock again. 6:03. Fifty-seven minutes until they need to leave, and yet somehow, it feels like they have all the time in the world.

* * *

Ricky bends down to tie his shoes as Nini strides up behind him, two thermoses of coffee in hand and her purse balanced in the crook of her left arm. She towers over him, an amused smirk on her face as she takes in his dark red button-down (he’s already rolled the sleeves up), his slim khakis, and his black shoes.

“What?” he asks, looking up and mirroring her grin. 

She shakes her head. “Nothing! Just that the brown shoes would go better with that outfit.” 

He stands up and her forehead is level with his nose. “I didn’t bring the brown shoes, though,” he murmurs. 

“Hmmmm,” Nini hums, handing him his thermos and slipping into her boots. “Things to bring for next time.”

Ricky grabs his work bag, then picks up her tote. “At this rate, my apartment will be empty by Christmas. Everything’s gonna be here.” 

“Maybe that’s the plan,” Nini winks, and for a moment he just gapes at her, unsure of what to say. It’s a joke. He knows it’s a joke. But neither of them can ignore the kernel of truth buried underneath it. He likes the idea of living with Nini, of not having to worry about whether to bring black shoes or brown with him. He likes the thought that _this_ : waking up beside her, listening to her sing Sara Bareilles in the shower while the bathroom fills with steam, could be every day. 

“Ready?” Nini asks, reaching for her keys on the peg by the door. 

Ricky extends his arm past her, blocking her path and swatting her hand away when she tries to duck hers under his. He snatches his own key fob off the hook and grins triumphantly at her. “Ready.” 

Nini blows out an amused breath, swearing to herself that she’ll hide his keys tonight and assure her own victory tomorrow.

* * *

Ricky shuts his door with a muted _thunk_ and pushes the start button on the dashboard. The Honda purrs to life, chiming out a tone as the gauges light up and bounce. The route from Nini’s place to school is second-nature to Ricky by now, and while Nini still plugs the address into her phone every day (“You never know when there’s going to be traffic.”), he no longer needs the GPS to get them to work. He puts on the radio, grateful that Nini finally convinced him to get rid of the yellow Nissan he’d been rolling around in since senior year of high school. The radio hadn’t worked on that car in years, and while he and Nini were more than capable of creating their own commuting soundtrack, sometimes it’s nice to listen to voices besides their own.

James Arthur croons through the speakers. 

_I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me_

_Like it was a private show, I know you never saw me_

_When the lights come on and I'm on my own_

_Will you be there to sing it again?_

_Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories_

_Can I be him?_

Ricky reaches over the console and finds Nini’s hand, interlacing their fingers while continuing to steer with one hand. She turns toward him, her lips moving silently with the words. He never looks away from the road, but he can feel her eyes on him, and he fails to fight back the goofy grin that breaks across his face. Only she can elicit this reaction from him. It’s her super power, and one she tries not to abuse even though it’s so tempting to see him smile like that all the time. 

It doesn’t feel like the first day back. Granted, the first day of school was always a staff-only day, but she couldn’t help the jitters that used to come at the start of September. It was like the opening night of a show. Only it was a show she’d never read the script for. It hadn’t even been written yet. And even with one day to prepare - a dress rehearsal of sorts - she knew it would still feel like doing improv for the first time in front of a live audience. An audience whose futures depended on the quality of her performance. Strangely, those jitters are gone today. The school year feels lived-in. Settled and comfortable and routine. She’ll teach her classes and in a few days’ time, she and Ricky will organize auditions for the musical. They’ll go home at night to her condo to pore over scripts and watch endless YouTube videos of other schools’ staging concepts. They’ll open to a packed house, celebrate at Denny’s, and go back to the drawing board for the next year. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. It’s the kind of repetition she can get used to.

Ricky snags a parking space a few rows back from the front doors. They’re five minutes early. Nini pushes the passenger door open and reaches into the back seat for her bag. An old green pickup clatters to a stop in the space beside them and Seb emerges, squinting in the early morning sunlight and waving brightly when he spots them. He flashes his faculty ID at them as he approaches. “My first day as an official East High staff member!” he exults and Nini rushes over, hooking one arm around him in a friendly, delighted hug. 

* * *

The bleachers are pulled out on one side of the gym, facing a podium that is positioned perfectly at half-court. Teachers sit in clusters along the red and white benches, chatting amongst themselves. There are hugs, loud greetings, and stories of summers spent on beaches, by lakes, in the woods, and on the couch. Ricky leads the way across the gleaming wood floor and snags seats in the fourth row. Nini drops down beside him, and Seb takes the seat on the end. Ricky glances around the room, spotting Ashlyn sitting to his far left. She waves when she sees him. EJ is in the first row, front and center, and he eventually spots Gina a few rows behind them. Conversation echoes off the walls and the caged ceiling fans - some with softballs caught in between their bars - drone endlessly, pushing the warm air lazily above their heads.

Principal Gutierrez walks through the doors. His brown suit is swallowing him whole and his red necktie is slightly askew. The principal steps onto the podium and taps the microphone a few times to test it out. The sound reverberates throughout the gymnasium and a hush falls over the crowd. The whir of the fans seems magnified.

“Good morning, everyone,” Principal Gutierrez greets, speaking a little too close to the mic. He pauses so that 150 voices can greet him back, then sucks in a big breath. “It is certainly lovely to see you all back again.” His eyes rove slowly over the gathered faculty, but Ricky is certain that the man can’t see anyone’s face clearly without his glasses. 

“I want to begin by welcoming you all back to East High,” Gutierrez continues. “And for those who are new to staff, welcome to the Leopard Family. I believe we only have one new faculty member this year. Where is he? Mr. Matthew-Smith?” 

Ricky and Nini both turn to the blond-haired man, their smiles warm and bright as he stands and gives a Miss America wave to his new coworkers. 

“There you are! Mr. Seb Matthew-Smith, everyone,” Principal Gutierrez announces. “Mr. Matthew-Smith will be teaching an all-new dance elective for the PE department. You may recognize him from last year’s outstanding musical. We are no doubt lucky to have him.”

Seb takes a seat as the applause dies down. 

“Now, we have one other new face this year. As many of you already know, Mr. Ortega, our previous superintendent, retired over the summer. I am happy to announce that the board has found a more-than-suitable successor to Mr. Ortega. Please give a warm Leopard welcome to Mr. Benjamin Mazzara.” 

The applause is tentative as faculty members turn to their colleagues, whispering in hushed tones. A new superintendent means new ideas. It means change. Ricky sits up a bit straighter. He’s the first to admit that he’s been bad about checking his email over the summer. There weren’t any students emailing over the break, and his inbox went unattended for days or even weeks at a time. Still, he’s surprised that he somehow managed to miss any information about a new superintendent. He casts a glance at Nini, who looks just as confused. 

Mr. Mazzara steps up to the podium, a tight half-smile just visible beneath his dark mustache. Ricky can’t quite make out his features from so far back, but he can already tell a lot about the man based on the way he dresses and stands. His pale blue shirt is immaculately pressed, and his thin navy tie is perfectly knotted. He stands rigid at the microphone, like a soldier at attention, and passes his eyes over the assembled crowd. Principal Gutierrez looks sicklier than usual beside him, and he seems to wilt more and more the longer they stand next to each other.

“Good morning,” Mr. Mazzara’s voice booms around the gym, low and brisk. “And welcome. I am very excited to be sharing this new academic year with you all.” Ricky can’t help but notice that he doesn’t sound particularly excited. Mazzara’s tone is clipped and monotonous.

“As Mr. Gutierrez informed you, I have been named superintendent as of late July. I previously served as an administrator at several schools, most recently in Logan. In all of my time working in education in the state of Utah, I’ve heard how exemplary Salt Lake City schools are, East High in particular.” 

From the front row, EJ lets out a little whoop, but Mazzara’s stoic expression remains unfazed and the noise seems to die in his throat before it’s been fully released. 

The superintendent clears his throat and continues, “It is a legacy you should all be proud of. And as superintendent, it is my duty to continue this legacy and further it. Superintendent Ortega brought this school up to standards. It is my intention that East High will no longer simply meet those standards. Under my watch, East High will set the standards and become a model school for the Mountain States and beyond. Together, we will bring this school to the cutting edge of modern education. As we speak, my office is applying for grants to improve East High’s lab spaces, technological resources, and STEM capabilities. There will be changes, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. But I am confident that you will work together and exhibit the utmost professionalism as we bring about these changes. We have a proud Leopard tradition at East High, and I look forward to taking that to the next level. Thank you.” 

Applause ripples through the gym as Mr. Mazzara steps back from the microphone. Ricky finds himself clapping along half-heartedly, and he is surprised to see Nini joining the applause when he looks to his right. It’s not that he takes issue with Mazzara’s goals, and of course any new superintendent is going to have big plans. But just once, it would be nice if those plans included something for the arts and humanities: for music and drama and drawing and English.

Gutierrez mumbles some quick thank-yous to Mr. Mazzara and then dismisses the teachers to their classrooms. Ricky holds Nini’s hand as they make their way through the throng towards the exit. “So what do you think of this new guy?” he asks her, keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard. 

Nini shrugs. “He seems like he’s got some good ideas. I don’t know how many of them will come true, but it’s nice that he wants to make us an even better school, right?” 

Ricky nods, but says nothing. He wishes he could have Nini’s optimism. He wishes he could take on blind faith that Benjamin Mazzara’s plans will improve the school. But if he’s learned anything in his twenty-four years of life, it’s that change seldom comes without catches. The only question is: what’s the catch?

Ricky squeezes Nini’s hand as they pass through the gym doors and out into the brightly-lit basement hallway. “See you in a bit?” he asks hopefully.

Nini smiles brightly and goes up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Count on it,” she tells him, then turns to Seb. “C’mon! I’ll show you a shortcut to the auditorium.” 

Ricky makes his way to the music room, just a short walk from the gym. The proximity to EJ made him nervous at first, especially once it was apparent that he and Nini were together. Now, he’s just glad he doesn’t have to fight his way through the crowd to the first floor like Nini does. The wooden doors that lead to his classroom look exactly how he left them: covered in white bulletin board paper on which he painstakingly drew black lines and music notes. The cut-out letters read “Conduct Yourself Well.” 

He fishes in his pocket for his key and relishes in the familiar click when he inserts it into the lock and twists. He grips the handle and pushes the door open, fumbling for the lightswitch and clicking on the fluorescent overhead lights that bathe the music room in their bluish-white glow. The first thing that hits him is the smell - familiar and still present after months of disuse. It’s a combination of rosin and reeds, metal and wood. The room is cold from months of air conditioning without an open window or door to vent it out. The chairs are stacked against the windows in the same place he left them, and the music stands are racked across the back wall. Every music poster still hangs in its designated place. Mozart smirks at him from above the drums. He pushes one piano key with his index finger and winces at the dissonant sound it makes. _Note to self. Call the piano tuner._

Last year was Ricky’s first time in a room of his own. This year is his first time coming back to the same place. It’s an immensely gratifying feeling, and he feels his chest start to swell with all the possibilities of this new school year. New superintendent or not, this is _his_ room and it will be filled with _his_ students, who will learn very quickly that anyone can be a musician.

Ricky crosses to the small office in the far corner of the room and unlocks the unpainted wood door, pushing it open to reveal the wood panels and dull tile. The office, too, is exactly how he left it, looking unfinished and largely forgotten. A thin layer of dust has settled across his desk and clouded up his computer monitor. The only sign that anyone has been in the room at all is the stack of boxes in the corner, no doubt full of the supplies he ordered before last school year ended. He fishes in his desk for a pair of scissors and sets the first box on top, cutting the tape delicately and pulling back the flaps to reveal office supplies: Expo markers, pencils, staples, paper clips, red ink pens that he probably won’t use. _Okay. Kinda anticlimactic, but there’s still a few more boxes to get through_.

The next box reveals a few packages of guitar strings and rosin cakes packed into their little rectangular boxes. Box three contains nothing but music notebooks, pre-printed with staffs so that students can write in the proper notes. The fourth and last box contains capos, drumsticks, a few hard-sided instrument cases (sans instruments) and some replacement strings for violins and violas. Ricky frowns. Something is very wrong. He goes back into the classroom, scanning the walls for the rest of his order. 

Where are the replacement instruments? What about the tuner he ordered and the woodwind maintenance kits? Where is the bass drum he was promised? He rushes back into his office and pulls out the packing slip, scanning the form for the missing items. None of them are listed. _Did I mess up the order? Did I forget to put those things through?_

The sound of the door opening and slamming shut on its spring hinges reverberates through the classroom, bringing Ricky out of his office once again. He is surprised to find Mr. Mazzara walking toward him. 

If he seemed stiff during the morning address, Mr. Mazzara is downright rigid up-close. Everything about the man is straight, pressed, and upright. He stands with his shoulders squared and walks in long strides. Ricky briefly considers having him demonstrate proper marching technique for the marching band. As he approaches, Ricky can see that his hair is immaculately shaped and his mustache is trimmed precisely. He seemed taller onstage, but his presence hasn’t diminished. 

‘Uh, hi, Mr. Mazzara,” Ricky begins, offering his hand automatically. “I’m -” 

“Yes, I know who you are, Richard Bowen,” Mazzara says, closing the distance between them and giving the music teacher’s hand a tight shake that leaves his fingers throbbing. 

Ricky stares dumbly for a moment, then manages a surprised, “You do?”

“Yes,” Mazzara replies, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “As superintendent, I make it a point to know all of my teachers. This is your second year at East High. Your previous experiences include teaching overseas.” 

“Yeah,” Ricky says. “The Philippines.” 

“Manilla. I’m aware,” the superintendent replies. “Our Lady of Guadalupe Children’s Academy. I spoke with the headmistress. What was her name? Corazon, I believe.” 

The music teacher gapes at him. Who is this man who seems to know all about his history, and why does it matter so much? 

Mazzara gives an approximation of a chuckle. “Don’t be alarmed, Richard. Simply a formality. I like to know the staff I’m working with.” Ricky can’t help but feel the extra scrutiny has more to do with his newness - and lack of tenure - than anything else. “In any case,” the man continues, “I simply wanted to introduce myself. I am sure you’ll have a very successful year in music.” The corner of his mouth tweaks upward ever-so-slightly, his mustache twitching with the motion. Ricky suspects it’s the closest the man ever gets to a smile.

As Mazzara starts to walk away, Ricky calls after him, “Actually, Mr. Mazzara. I have a question. I’m not sure if you can answer it.” 

He stops abruptly and turns on his heel, closing the distance between them once more with brisk steps. “Certainly.” 

“Well, I, uh,” Ricky’s hand instinctively finds the back of his neck, “I ordered a bunch of supplies last year, you see. Instruments, repair kits, even this big bass drum to replace the broken one we had. But so far I haven’t seen any sign of them. Do you know what might’ve happened to them?” 

The superintendent makes a vague humming noise and nods his head. “I do. I regret not informing you sooner, Richard. That was an oversight on the part of my office. As I shared previously, we are looking to make East High into a cutting edge school. A paragon for other schools in the state. To do that, we will need to update many of our facilities, most especially our science labs.” 

Ricky’s heart sinks. He can tell where this discussion is headed. It’s exactly the kind of discussion he was warned about. The sorry-we-can’t-help-you-but-music-isn’t-that-important discussion. The your-subject-isn’t-on-a-state-test-so-we-need-to-cut-your-funding discussion. Typically, he was told, those discussions precede the inevitable we-regret-to-inform-you-that-we-need-to-cut-your-position discussion. 

“Unfortunately, while we wait for the grant money, it was necessary to reallocate portions of the budget for essential upgrades to the chemistry labs. Therefore, part of the music department budget was redistributed.” 

Ricky feels a spark of anger flare up in his stomach, then up to his chest, and then the back of his throat. Mazzara’s clinical tone irritates him. As if he’s asking him to make do with a few less pencils, not entire instruments. He tamps down his ire before he can say something stupid. “I understand that, Mr. Mazzara,” he begins, swallowing his distaste. “But without those instruments, I won’t have enough for my students. I was really counting on the extras, not to mention that without the repair kits, if anything breaks there will be no way to fix it.” 

Mazzara sighs, his expression unmoved. “Richard, I understand the dilemma. I hope you understand mine. Why not just have students share instruments?” 

It’s all Ricky can do to stop from laughing in the man’s face. Surely he can’t be serious. He wants to challenge the superintendent. He wants to ask him how students are supposed to share a clarinet. He bites his tongue.

“Your subject is all about creativity, is it not?” 

Ricky nods slowly. 

“Then I’m certain you’ll be able to find a creative way to make do. Perhaps if we secure the grant money we need, you will have a little extra room in next year’s budget to purchase those additional instruments.” 

_Fat chance_ , Ricky thinks. Any surplus will surely be used to build an aerospace engineering lab or develop robots with human consciousness or something similarly high-tech. 

“Alternatively,” Mr. Mazzara says as he starts once more for the door, “you may have students rent their instruments. We will not be able to reimburse them for the rental, but I’m certain that those dedicated few who truly wish to pursue music will be more than happy to do so. I appreciate your understanding with this, Richard. We all have to make sacrifices, I’m afraid.” With a curt nod, the man steps through the doors and allows them to swing shut behind him. 

Ricky stands in the middle of the music room, which suddenly feels more bare than when he first arrived at East High. He wonders when the science labs or the math department will need to make sacrifices. He can’t require students to rent an instrument on their own dime. Not every family can afford the added expense, he knows. And the idea of imposing a financial restriction on his students’ desire to learn an instrument nauseates him. His philosophy has always been “anyone can be a musician.” Not, “anyone can be a musician... _if they have the money_ .” Ricky stares at the door, unable to shake his disdain for Benjamin Mazzara, a man who clearly has very little respect for him, and even less respect for music in general.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the chapter! The title is from West Side Story. Thank you for reading, and for all any kudos or comments you feel so inclined to leave. Your support means the world, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts, as well as to share the next chapter soon. Be safe, be well, and above all, be kind!


	3. All For The Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thoroughly enjoying writing this story so far, and so I'm hoping to push updates out fairly frequently. This chapter picks up basically right where the last one left off. I'm trying to expand the voices and perspectives that this story is told from, so in addition to Ricky and Nini (who are still, of course, the main characters), EJ and Gina will also get a fair amount of attention in this chapter and going forward. It's been so awesome to hear what you've all thought so far. Thank you for reading, supporting, leaving kudos, and commenting! 
> 
> Also, continuing with the Broadway chapter title theme, this one is entitled "All For The Best." Think you recognize it? Check out the notes at the end and see if you got it right!

EJ unlocks the PE storage closet and reaches up, pulling the cord to turn on the bare, incandescent light bulb. He hates the smell of this little room: musty and rank with decades of unwashed pinnies and baseball gloves that have never been aired out. It’s the worst part of the start of every school year: opening up this closet and taking stock of what they have, checking for mold. In every other department, this is the job of the department head. Nini’s department head opens up the dusty book room every year and counts dog-eared copies of  _ To Kill a Mockingbird _ . Ashlyn’s department head unlocks her closet every year and makes piles of graffitied textbooks. Gina’s department head counts the calculators, the head of the science department inventories the microscopes. But there is no department head for PE. The others in the department deferred to EJ as their de facto leader after the basketball team won their first championship, and he’s held the key to this damn closet ever since. 

He drags one of the ten-gallon garbage cans full of basketballs out onto the polished wood floor of the gym, then flings out a net sack full of jump ropes. The hockey sticks, baseball bats, and footballs follow, and then he gingerly picks up the crate full of red and white pinnies and wrinkles his nose at the smell as he drops it beside the other equipment. He begins rifling through the garbage can, repurposed into a basketball holder. The balls in the worst shape were thrown out at the end of last year. The ones that remain were deemed serviceable. But he should have received a shipment of new ones, too. He’d made sure they were on the list when orders were put in. And come to think of it, he had ordered new uniforms for the basketball team after they won the state championship again last year. Those, too, are nowhere to be seen.  _ Where did they go?  _

The storage room is empty. Every last garbage can, milk crate, and drawstring bag full of supplies is laid out on the gymnasium floor.  _ So where the hell could those basketballs be?  _ The sound of dress shoes clicking across the wood floor pulls him from his thoughts and he looks up just in time to see their new superintendent approaching. 

EJ had been a bit surprised when he learned of Ortega’s retirement, but he supposed it was inevitable. And while his coworkers were buzzing anxiously about this regime change, he remained unconcerned. Superintendents are all the same. Big-shot guys who know how to play politics. They work their way up to the top and then sit in their air-conditioned offices all day, handing down edicts and occasionally visiting schools to  _ ooh  _ and  _ ahh  _ at a bunch of pre-packaged lessons being given by teachers who smile a little too much when the suits enter the room. EJ Caswell was raised by political climbers. Literally. His father made the jump from the boardroom to City Hall when EJ was still in high school. His mother is a high-powered prosecutor. He knows how to talk to people like Benjamin Mazarra.

EJ turns and pastes on his most charming smile. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his blue-green irises shine with warmth. “Good morning, Mr. Mazzara,” he says, as if he’s been expecting the man all morning. As if this is his office, and the superintendent has scheduled an appointment. He holds out his hand. “So good to meet you. I’m -” 

“Eric Caswell,” Mazzara fills in, accepting the handshake. Firm. Maybe a little too firm, EJ notes. His father had always extolled the virtues of a good handshake. Too limp and they’ll think you’re a pushover. Too hard and they’ll think you’re trying to sell them something. And always,  _ always  _ make sure your hands aren’t clammy or they’ll never look you in the eye again. 

“Please, call me EJ,” he says. “I guess my reputation precedes me.” He throws in a little laugh with the statement. A self-conscious one. One that’s meant to communicate that he’s aware of his reputation, but still modest enough to be humble about it. 

“You can say that,” Mr. Mazzara replies bluntly, looking the PE teacher up and down. EJ suddenly feels self-conscious standing next to the superintendent and his neatly ironed shirt and perfectly-tied tie. He’s wearing a tracksuit. Totally appropriate for teaching gym. White with red piping and a plain red t-shirt underneath so that he’s radiating school spirit, but he feels woefully underdressed now. 

_ Is Mazzara posturing?  _

EJ tries a different approach. “I mean, we’ve got three back-to-back state championships under our belt,” he says imperiously.

“Indeed. Very impressive, Eric,” Mazarra answers, and EJ notes the dismissive tone in his voice. It’s almost as irritating as the fact that the man insists on calling him  _ Eric _ . 

EJ pauses to consider his options. Humble, down-to-earth gym teacher EJ failed to make an impression, as did grandiose, championship-winning coach EJ. He tries to sound welcoming and hospitable. “Well, welcome to Leopard Country,” he says, gesturing to the many banners that adorn the walls, state titles and wins dating back to the 80s. 

Mr. Mazzara doesn’t seem amused or impressed. “Yes, thank you. I just wanted to stop in and introduce myself. As I’m sure you heard from my address this morning, I’m looking to make some big changes to benefit East High…”

EJ’s grin widens. “You can count on me, sir.” He watches carefully to see if the  _ sir  _ does the trick. Guys like Mazzara - superintendents - are mostly frustrated politicians. Men who wanted to go for higher offices, more power, and fell just short. They love it when they’re addressed as sir. The man’s expression remains unmoved, and EJ vows not to use the title again. Still, he at least knows the man’s motive now. It’s so simple. He wants to bring about change, but to do it, he’ll need to get the more influential staff members on his side. 

“I’m glad,” Mr. Mazzara answers, his mouth twitching into something like a smirk. “We need the support of  _ all  _ teachers to make this change happen. It was a pleasure meeting you, Eric. I’ll let you get back to…” he looks down at the pile of sports equipment at his feet, “whatever it is you’re doing.” He starts to walk away, the click of his polished shoes resounding throughout the gym. 

EJ watches, bewildered. Absolutely  _ nothing  _ has worked on this man. Not modesty, not ego, not hospitality, and not flattery. And any illusions EJ had about Mazzara’s intent were shattered the moment he emphasized the need for  _ everyone  _ to get onboard. He lets the act drop, deflating like a balloon as humble EJ, champion EJ, genteel host EJ, and EJ the Asskisser all leave him. He figures he may as well get some answers while the man is still here. 

“Mr. Mazzara?” he calls, and the superintendent pauses but doesn’t turn around. “While you’re here, I just wanted to ask. I got approved for new uniforms for the basketball team at the end of the season last year. I was just wondering if you knew anything about that…”

“Yes, actually,” Mazzara turns around. “I asked the athletic director to reach out to you. He must have neglected to do so. I saw the item in the budget, but upon closer inspection of your current equipment and uniforms, I saw no need for new ones.” 

“But I was approved!” EJ sputters, acutely aware of how petulant he is beginning to sound. 

“Unfortunately, you were approved under my predecessor. Mr. Ortega had other goals for this school than I do, and when I took over, I had to rearrange some items in the budget. I didn’t see a need for new uniforms, so I canceled the order. The funds were necessary for other, more pressing projects.” 

“Some of the uniforms are starting to wear,” EJ counters, feeling heat working its way up to his face, his brows knit tightly together. 

“I inspected them myself,” Mazzara responds. “They are serviceable, at least for one more season. We can reevaluate at the end of the year but my priorities do not lie with a sports team at the moment.” 

EJ opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it again. His hands are tightly balled into frustrated fists and he is aware of how rigid his stance has become when the familiar ache ripples through his locked right knee. He wants to jump up and down, shake the man, and point to the massive banner draped across the wall at half-court. EAST HIGH LEOPARDS BOYS BASKETBALL. STATE CHAMPIONS. There are two matching banners along the wall by the scoreboard, etched with the previous two years. They aren’t  _ just  _ a sports team. They are the most competitive high school team in the state. Half of his seniors from last year are now playing basketball at division one schools. But something tells him Mazzara won’t be moved by basketball statistics, either. 

“I know this is disappointing, Eric,” Mazzara continues in what EJ suspects is the most gentle tone he can muster. It sounds more like a lecture. “But, as I said, we will all need to come together in support of these initiatives. They will make our school a much better place. If we are successful, you’ll never need to worry about room in the budget for uniforms again.” He pats EJ’s shoulder in what is meant to be a chummy gesture, but it ends up feeling forced and robotic, devoid of all friendliness. “I’m glad that I can count on you.” The twitch of a smirk reappears beneath Mazzara’s dark mustache, and then he walks briskly out of the gym, leaving the PE teacher gaping in his wake. 

A moment later, he stalks out into the hall, the gym equipment still half-sorted on the floor. He needs a walk or a drink of water, or to sit in his car and scroll through his phone for a half hour to distract himself from the anger and frustration bubbling just below the surface. He’s surprised to find Ricky standing opposite the water fountain, leaning his back against the wall. He looks  _ pissed _ , which isn’t a look EJ’s used to seeing on Ricky. The kid’s usually cheerful and bouncy, all smiles and optimism. 

EJ dips his head and takes a drink from the fountain. Ricky’s eyebrows are bunched, his eyes slightly glazed-over. The older man slots in beside him, mimicking his posture: back to the wall, legs jutting out, ankles crossed, arms folded. 

“Have you met this Mazzara guy?” Ricky starts, not taking his eyes off the floor. 

“Oh yeah,” EJ drawls, fixing his gaze on a grout line in the tile. “He canceled my uniform order. And new equipment for the gym.” 

“You too?” Ricky asks. 

EJ tears his eyes from the floor and turns them on Ricky. The younger man continues staring at the ground. “He ‘reallocated’ my funding for new instruments and repair kits. Said they were needed to help renovate the chemistry labs. Now I don’t have enough instruments to give to my students.” 

EJ lets out a low whistle. “That sucks,” he says. Not having the uniforms will definitely be a hit to the team’s morale, and while the old equipment isn’t great, he at least has enough to go around for now. He can’t imagine trying to do his job without having the necessary tools. 

Ricky shakes his head and turns to look at EJ, his brown eyes clouded. “What’s your take on him?” 

“I don’t know,” EJ answers earnestly. “I’m still trying to figure him out. I thought he was gonna be like every other superintendent, you know? Says some stuff he doesn’t mean, talks about changes he won’t make. Makes everyone feel good and then disappears and visits once a year. But he’s different. He’s got, like, a bullshit detector or something because he saw right through me.”

Ricky smirks and can’t resist getting a snipe in. “Maybe you’re just not very good at hiding your bullshit.” 

“Ha, ha,” EJ says sarcastically. “My point is, he’s not like every other superintendent. He’s not just talking about making changes. He’s actually doing things to make change. Problem is, we’re getting shafted in the process.”

Ricky nods grimly. He has to agree. They are, indeed, getting shafted. 

They lapse into silence, each leaning against the wall and staring at the ground. Finally, EJ looks over to Ricky. “I’m sorry about your instruments, man.”

Ricky lets out a resigned sigh. “Thanks. And I’m sorry about your uniforms.” 

“Thanks. Let’s just hope that’s all Mazzara plans on taking from us.” 

Ricky laughs ruefully. “Something tells me it’s not.” 

* * *

Gina steps back and looks at the poster.  _ Anyway you add it up, math counts! _ It was a present from her mother. It arrived the week prior, rolled up in a tube and dropped off by the FedEx guy, postmarked from Kansas. It’s cute and kitschy, clearly made for an elementary classroom with its blackboard-style background and numerous pink-and-yellow polkadots. Definitely not the type of thing she would choose on her own, but because it’s from her mom, she resolves to find a spot for it. Gina lets out a huff upon realizing the poster is slightly crooked and prepares to climb back onto the desk to fix it. 

“Gina Porter?” 

She looks up, startled to find Mr. Mazzara standing in her doorway. He leans against the doorpost in a way that’s meant to convey casualness, but he’s a little too stiff to make it look natural. 

“That’s me,” she says brightly, moving to the door to greet him. 

“Benjamin Mazzara,” he offers her his hand to shake. 

She invites him into the classroom and watches tensely as his eyes scan the room, taking in the rows of desks, the half-height bookshelves filled with hardcover math textbooks, and the bins full of protractors and calculators and rulers. She wasn’t sure what to make of the new superintendent when he gave his morning address, and she’s less sure what to make of him now. His eyes are hawklike, surveying her classroom with an appraising eye. His clothes speak to his attention to detail, and they aren’t cheap. His shoes are polished to a high shine. And yet, despite this coiffed and upright image, there is a slight, upward curve to his lips that his mustache works to hide. 

“I’m told last year was your first at East High,” he turns to her. His eyes are startlingly dark - almost black. She briefly wonders if he’s somehow found out about the antics she pulled regarding the musical. The petty scheming feels like a lifetime ago now, and it almost feels like those deeds were committed by someone else. A Gina who no longer exists, replaced instead by the person she is now. 

“Yes,” she says. The words catch in her throat, forming a lump near her jugular. She coughs slightly, but it does nothing to clear it. 

“And I’m also told you advise both the robotics club and scholastic decathlon team, is that correct?” 

“Yes,” she repeats, wondering if this is a second interview of some sort.  _ Is he looking for weak links to sever?  _

The superintendent nods slowly, his lips curling into a full smile. “Very impressive, I must say. A first-year teacher advising any club is ambitious. Advising two? Almost unheard of.” 

Gina can’t help but smile in return. “Well,” she says modestly, “they’re both interests of mine. I thought I might lend a hand seeing as they both needed an advisor.” 

“Indeed,” Mr. Mazzara says. “And that is precisely the type of self-starter attitude I like to see in my teachers. It shows initiative and school pride. I look forward to hearing of both teams’ success this year.” 

Gina’s smile falters slightly. The students haven’t even entered for their first day yet, and already she feels the pressure building. Mazzara had emphasized the importance of STEM and tech initiatives in his speech. She hadn’t been aware that this extended to clubs and extracurriculars as well. 

“I am planning a major expansion to the robotics club this year,” he continues. “I want to show the rest of Utah the innovative technology programs we offer at East High. Can I count on you to oversee the expansion? These are your clubs, after all, and I believe you would know best how to implement it.” 

The math teacher’s eyes widen, and it’s all she can do to stop herself from blurting ‘are you serious?’ “Yes!” she says, her eyes floating upward, thanking every deity she can think of. She takes in Mazzara’s amused half-smile and regains her composure. “Yes, Mr. Mazzara. You can absolutely count on me.” She resists the urge to squeal and do a happy dance.  _ Keep it together, Gina. Keep it together till he leaves. _

“Excellent,” Mazzara says, starting for the exit. He pauses in the doorway and turns around. “I’m told there will be an elite robotics competition in China this summer. Only the top ten schools in the country will be invited. I’ll email you the details.”

Gina’s smile widens and she has to stop herself from pinching her own arm, but her smile fades when she realizes a flaw in Mazzara’s vision. “An international competition would exceed my entire budget for the year,” she says. 

“Don’t worry about that,” he replies. “As I said, I’m planning to expand the program. That means a higher budget. Focus on getting the robotics club to nationals. I’ll take care of getting you to China.”

Gina lets out a muffled squeal of delight once his footsteps have retreated fully down the hall. She’d been ecstatic when the scholastic decathlon team took second at the Four Corners Bowl last year. She was over-the-moon when robotics won regionals. The possibility of doing more - of going to  _ China  _ to compete - is so unbelievably far-fetched that it isn’t even included on her vision board. And yet, here is Benjamin Mazzara, wizard of the school board, dangling her wildest and most outlandish dreams in front of her, just within reach.

The thought strikes her suddenly, bringing an unsettling feeling in her stomach along with it. Mazzara promised he would take care of her budget needs. Well, last time she checked, the board of education didn’t print its own money. There is a finite amount of funding available each year. So if she’s receiving a bigger budget for robotics, someone is receiving a smaller one for something else. She knows she should go after the superintendent. She knows she should ask  _ where  _ this money is coming from. But she doesn’t, and deep down she knows it’s because she’s afraid of the answer he’ll give her. 

* * *

“I never realized how big the school is,” Seb says, collapsing into a student desk in the front of Nini’s classroom. She spent an hour guiding him through the vast hallways of East High, pointing out every faculty lounge, where the reliable copy machines were located, and which bathrooms tended to be the cleanest. 

“You’ll never need to walk that much again,” she promises, writing out tomorrow’s date in purple Expo on the whiteboard. “Most of us tend to stick close to our rooms.” 

“Yeah, well I’m backstage in the auditorium so I’m  _ definitely  _ going to be out and about when I’m not teaching. I can’t stay in a windowless room all day. I need sunlight. Sparkly vampire isn’t really my aesthetic.” 

“Just be glad they organized all the sets and props for you,” Nini giggles. “When Ricky and I got back there last year, it was like a tornado touched down.” 

“Speaking of Ricky, where is your knight in shining armor?” Seb wiggles his eyebrows behind his large frames. 

Nini smiles. “Unpacking instruments, most likely. He’ll stop in around lunch.” She’s confident in this. It’s their routine. A fond farewell on the first floor landing, a morning full of activity in their respective classrooms, and then lunch together in her room or his. 

“So cute,” Seb grins. “It’s so great to see two people in love.” 

Nini winces. It’s a quick scrunching-up of the face. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it microexpression that Seb notices right away. Then she’s back to smiling and nodding mutely. She turns back to the board and picks up the pink Expo marker instead.  _ Welcome to 12th Grade English!  _ She writes in her loopy script. Seb wonders if he’s inadvertently offended her. 

“Pardon my interruption,” the curt voice at the door causes both of them to look up. The superintendent stands in the doorway. “I’m visiting all the classrooms and introducing myself.”

“It’s not an interruption,” Nini says, setting down the marker and crossing to the door as he steps inside. 

“Nina Salazar-Roberts, correct?” 

Nini pauses, eyebrows creasing slightly. She briefly wonders if they’ve already met, but she’s certain she’s never crossed paths with Benjamin Mazzara in her life. “Yes, that’s me.” 

He nods to Seb, still seated in the student desk. “And Sebastian Matthew-Smith.” 

The blond rises to his feet. “Just Seb is fine,” he says pleasantly. 

Mazzara makes no indication that he’s heard Seb. “You know, I was quite taken aback when I learned East High hired a dance instructor. I don’t know a single other high school in this region where dance is offered as a physical education elective.”

Seb smiles, a rosy blush starting in his cheeks. “Thank you -” he starts, but he’s cut off by the superintendent. 

“I admit I don’t quite see the purpose. Certainly even the least athletically inclined individuals could last for forty-five minutes in a game of softball. But seeing as your contract was signed and approved in May, we now have the distinction of maintaining a dance elective.”

Seb stands stock still, his mouth falling open for a moment before he recovers, closes it, and sits back down in his seat. Nini clears her throat uncomfortably. She feels the urge to put a comforting hand on Seb’s shoulder and to reassure him that Mazzara isn’t trying to slight him.  _ He’s just blunt _ , she wants to say.  _ He doesn’t mean it as an insult. _

“Nina, what are your plans for the first week of instruction?” Mazzara asks. His eyes roam around the room, settling on the various posters, the shelves full of novels, the clusters of desks, and the pastel theme. Nini isn’t sure whether he’s impressed or judgmental. 

“We’re starting with  _ The Crucible _ ,” she says brightly. 

“I’m not familiar,” the superintendent answers.

“Oh! It’s about the Salem Witch Trials,” she responds enthusiastically. “It talks about how the community is torn apart by all the accusations, and what some people do to fight back. It’s a great story, actually!” 

“I see,” Mazzara sniffs with an air of disinterest. “Well, it was good to meet you both. I wish you the best in this new school year.” 

Nini offers him a slight wave as he departs, then turns to Seb. “You okay?” she asks softly.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, his deep blue eyes glued firmly to the ground. They appear glassy behind his glasses. “Not the first time someone’s discounted me, and it probably won’t be the last.” 

Nini crosses to his side and wraps her arms around him in a side hug.  _ It’s not an insult. It’s not an insult. It’s not an insult.  _ She repeats the mantra to herself, and she’s certain it wasn’t. He’s just a blunt man. Anyone can see that. He’s not aware of how he came off. But there’s something about the resignation in Seb’s voice that makes her want to chase Mazzara down and ask him. Just to be sure. 

* * *

Principal Gutierrez comes on the speaker at noon to announce staff are free to go home early. Nini launches herself from her seat, hurriedly tossing her planner and her book into her bag and flicking the lightswitch as she turns and locks her classroom door. Her phone vibrates and she glances down at the screen. A text from Ricky.

_ Meet you at the car? _

She hastily fires off an  _ okay  _ and makes her way to the door. Ricky is waiting by his car as she approaches, and she slows her pace as she draws nearer. Something is wrong. She can see it in the set of his face: the corners of his mouth droop as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes fixated on the little pebbles that dot the asphalt. He nudges one with his shoe and does his best to brighten when he spots her, forcing himself to smile. “How was day one?” he asks.

“Good,” Nini murmurs distractedly. She was going to tell him about Mazzara and his jab at Seb. She wanted his perspective. But she pushes that aside now, because clearly something is troubling her boyfriend. “How was yours?” 

Ricky hesitates. “Let’s talk in the car,” he says finally, pulling the driver’s side door open. 

She hoists herself into the SUV, letting her bag fall at her feet. The radio comes on as soon as Ricky starts the engine, Muse playing softly through the speakers. Ricky puts the car in gear as soon as she clicks her seatbelt into place and they glide away from the school faster than the posted speed limit. The music is the only sound in the car.

_ My circuits have blown _

_ I know it's self-imposed _

_ And all I have shared, and all I have loved _

_ Is all I'll ever own _

_ But something has changed _

_ I feel so alive _

_ My life just blew up, I'd give it all up _

_ I'll depressurize _

“What happened?” she asks, turning down the volume and glancing into the side view mirror as if the school might be following them. It only feels safe to speak when the digital sign that marks the East High driveway has faded from view. 

Ricky sighs. “You want the short version or the long version?”

“As short or as long as you want,” she replies.

“Mazzara canceled my instrument order.” 

“He  _ what _ ?”

Ricky’s mouth is set in a grim line. His brows are furrowed, and his grip tightens subconsciously on the steering wheel. He tells her about how the money was spent on upgrading the chem lab instead of providing instruments for his kids. He tells her about how none of the repair kits he put in for arrived, either. 

“And you know what he told me when I pointed it out?” Ricky asks, outraged. Nini shakes her head. “He said, ‘isn’t your discipline all about creativity? Be creative.’” He says the last part in an exaggeratedly baritone voice, rounding each syllable mockingly. It’s what Nini imagines Mazzara would sound like if he were talking with his mouth full, though she can’t imagine a man as proper as Benjamin Mazzara would ever do something so graceless. “He said I should just have kids rent instruments on their own dime.”

She feels her heart sinking as she recalls what the man had said to Seb, and how Seb had withered under his words. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe their new superintendent really wasn’t as well-intentioned as she’d guessed. But she can’t shake the feeling that there must be more to the man than his blunt exterior would suggest. Above all, he seems like the practical sort. No-nonsense, just like Mama D. Antagonizing half the staff on purpose hardly seems practical. 

She turns to look at Ricky, and a pang of sadness hits her square in the chest. Her boyfriend is the definition of cheerful on most days. High-energy and full of life. He’s quick to smile, even quicker to laugh. His energy is infectious, and he never fails to lift her spirits. She hasn’t seen him look this miserable and defeated since last year, when Gina and EJ’s initial attempts at sabotage derailed the musical to the point that they feared they would have to cancel it altogether. It’s not a natural look for Ricky, and it somehow makes the world feel off-kilter. 

“Maybe if you can get some kids to rent instruments, you’ll have enough for the kids who can’t afford to,” she suggests. It’s little comfort and she knows it. 

Ricky sighs. He wishes Nini’s attempts to cheer him up worked, like they usually do. She’s normally a beacon of optimism, able to lighten up even his most cynical moments. But right now, it doesn’t seem to be helping. “That’s not the point, Neens,” he says, his voice patient and laced with gloom. “It’s one more thing I have to ask the kids to do, which means some of them are going to be turned off of learning to play.” He sighs, and then under his breath, he murmurs, “Anyone can be a musician.” 

Nini smiles wanly. His motto is one of her favorite things about him. The dogged determination to create artists out of his students. His ardent belief that with enough time and patient guidance, even the most untalented and unmotivated student can learn to love playing music. 

“They still can be,” she reassures him, reaching across and holding her hand palm-up. He takes one hand off the wheel instinctively and interlaces their fingers. She gives his hand a comforting squeeze. “Maybe it’s just growing pains, babe. This new guy has big ideas. I’m sure he thinks it’s all for the best. But give it time. He’s gonna love you. He’s gonna love all of us. And then he’ll see why you need those instruments.” 

Ricky peels his eyes off the road for a split second and takes in Nini’s earnest expression, her wide eyes and the gentle curve of her lips. For a moment, he allows himself to get lost in her optimism, too. He allows himself to believe that things really will work out for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly more obscure Broadway reference, but this one comes from Godspell, which (incidentally) I was in the ensemble for in middle school. Did you get it right? Let me know! Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.


	4. Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plugging along with this story! We'll be out of the exposition phase soon enough. Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos and thoughtful messages I've been receiving. These past couple days have been rough, I'm not going to lie. We're over a month into quarantine and they've extended school closures until mid-May at the earliest. I miss going to work, seeing my students, and all. But writing this story has kept me going and engaging with all of you just furthers that. So thank you for sharing your kindness with me. 
> 
> This chapter is again going to give a glimpse into EJ and Gina's perspectives, not just Ricky and Nini. The title for this chapter is "Sunrise." Guesses as to the musical that this one come from? Check the notes at the end to see if you're right!

EJ’s feet slap against the pavement, each step landing in sync with Kanye West’s voice rapping through his Airpods. 

_ That that don’t kill me _

_ Can only make me stronger _

His heart pounds against his chest, and as he rounds the corner of his street, he tries to ignore the familiar ache emanating from his right knee. Each footfall reverberates up from his running shoes and through his ankles. He grunts in exertion as he picks up his pace, sprinting the rest of the way to his house and finally coming to a stop in his driveway. His head pounds as he inhales deeply, letting the crisp morning air cool his screaming lungs.  _ Pushed too hard today, EJ _ , he thinks, but then corrects himself. Six miles isn’t too hard. It’s just enough. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in his car window as he walks up the drive, satisfied at the perspiration that has settled across his skin, making him glow in the just-rising sunlight. 

A blast of cold air greets him the second he opens the heavy, oak door. It cools against the sheen of sweat on his face, his neck, his arms, elevating goosebumps in its wake. He likes the house cold. It’s invigorating. The first rays of sun start to filter in through the partially-opened blinds, so he doesn’t bother to turn on the hallway light. He peels his shirt off, slinging it over his shoulder like a towel as he trudges to the bathroom and starts the shower, doing his cooldown stretches as the water heats to lukewarm. His knee screams in protest and threatens to lock up, so he lunges lower, forcing it to loosen, eyes momentarily screwed shut with pain. 

The injury is years old. His college basketball career ended prematurely because of it. A player on defense had fouled him just a little too hard, pushed into him at just the right angle to cause his ACL, MCL, and meniscus to rupture at once. They called it the unhappy triad, but his doctors had remained optimistic. Yet despite their every insistence that just one more procedure - another shot of cortisone, another operation, a few more months of physical therapy - would cure everything, the ache has never fully gone away. He’s learned to live with it, to take the throbbing sensation, grit his teeth a little harder, and use it to fuel him. If he keeps running a little faster and a little further each day, eventually he can outrun this, too. 

It’s bad today, though, and as he gingerly steps over the ledge of the tub he knows he’s overdone it just a little. The tepid water streams down on him in jets, beating against his back and loosening him up as he rinses out his hair and scrubs the perspiration off his body. A few minutes of massaging helps relax his knee enough that he can ignore the pain, and he shuts the water off, peeling back the cream-colored curtain and ripping his towel off the bar. He wraps it around his waist and steps out onto the thin, woven bath mat, feeling the coarse fibers between his toes. 

He pads barefoot along the dark wood floors leading to his bedroom and flicks the switch. The recessed lights, nestled among the exposed wood beams on the ceiling, illuminate the dark gray walls with their soft, yellow glow. He tosses his still-wet towel on the bed even though his mother (and Ashlyn and Nini) have all, at varying stages of his life, pleaded with him not to do that. Nini used to tut, snatch the towel off the comforter, and mutter about mold with mock severity. 

EJ roots around in his closet, pulling out a gray pair of track pants and slipping a light blue t-shirt over his head. He runs a comb through his damp, shiny hair. His coworkers in other departments love to poke fun at him for his easy morning routine. Five minutes and he’s ready for work. He doesn’t mind. It saves him time.

He moves briskly to the kitchen, pulling the blender from its place in the mahogany cabinet beside the stove. Lately, it’s the only kitchen appliance in the house that sees regular use. He carefully measures protein powder, then adds frozen bananas and berries, pours in water, and blends them together. He empties the shake into a tumbler and leaves the blender pitcher to soak in the sink. 

At 7:05, EJ steps out of the one-story house and locks the door behind him. His East High Leopards duffel bag is slung over his shoulder, bouncing against the side of his leg as he juggles his protein shake, his water bottle, and his car keys in his hands. He fumbles with the key fob until the Jeep unlocks, and then tosses the duffel in the back seat before hoisting himself behind the wheel. The engine rumbles to life and he eases down his driveway before roaring off for the first real day of the school year.

EJ likes to be early on the first day of school. Everyone tends to rush on the first day. The parking lot fills up quickly, and every car in Salt Lake City seems to be on the road. The school buses trundle slowly along, tentatively picking up kids, leaving their stop signs out a little too long as students struggle to choose a seat. He swings his Wrangler into the parking lot at 7:21, jogs to the front door, and stops in at the main office to check his mailbox before heading down to the gym. 

* * *

He’s setting up the volleyball net across half-court when the gym doors open. He almost expects Mr. Mazzara to enter, perhaps looking for baseballs to sell on eBay to fund a cold fusion reactor. Instead, a floppy-haired blond races in, his white sneakers squeaking across the freshly-waxed floor. “Coach!” 

EJ lets the net drop and dusts his hands off. “Max! Just the guy I was hoping to see,” he says.

Max screeches to a halt before him. He’s easily six foot, four. Maybe even six foot, five. EJ has to tilt his head just to look him in the eye. The senior grins sheepishly. Max’s smiles always look sheepish, as if he’s done something wrong and is merely waiting to be caught, though his sterling reputation begs to differ. “I got good news, Coach. I couldn’t wait to tell you. Villanova reached out!”

EJ’s eyes light up. He’d known, of course, that Villanova was interested in Max. He’s a standout player on a standout team. So much so that EJ has him pegged for captain this year. He’d had discussions with the university’s coach during the school year. Reaching out over the summer was a big indicator that their interest was more than passing, though. EJ beams with pride. 

“He wants me to send him more highlights,” Max continues breathlessly, his words running together. “And he said he’s going to come out to watch a game or two. This is crazy, Coach C. Villanova’s, like, my  _ dream _ !”

“Well then, when the coach from Villanova comes to check you out, we’re gonna give him one hell of a game,” EJ promises. 

“I know it’s months till the season starts, but I’m already nervous,” Max confesses, his smile fading to an anxious half-grin.

EJ puts a firm hand on the player’s shoulder. “You’ve got a whole team behind you. Your job is to help them shine, and their job is to help you shine. So when the time comes, trust in them to help carry you through the same way they trust you. And in the meantime, focus on keeping your grades up and staying in shape. I’m running conditioning sessions Monday, Wednesday, and Friday during pre-season. We’ll fine tune the rest during practice.” 

The boy brightens. “Thanks, Coach. Hey, did the new uniforms come in yet?” 

EJ purses his lips. “Actually, I’ve got some bad news. We had to cancel the uniform order.” 

The teen knits his brows. “What? Why? I thought you said you already ordered them last year.”

“I did. But unfortunately there’s been some...last minute changes. The school needed the money for other things, so we had to put off buying new uniforms. I guess they figured we could make do with the ones we have for another season.” 

Max deflates slightly. “I mean, I get it. Still. Would’ve been cool to finish senior year in some new threads.” 

“I know,” the coach answers. “The good news is, with all of your skills combined, most scouts probably won’t be paying attention to what you’re wearing.” The homeroom bell rings, a shrill tone that echoes around the gym. “Better get to homeroom,” EJ admonishes.

Max starts for the door, then pauses and turns around. “Hey, Coach. We’re gonna make this year our fourth back-to-back championship win. You know that, right?” 

EJ smiles. “I’m counting on it.” 

Max grins lopsidedly and walks out of the gym in long strides. EJ sighs. The first thing he learned when he became a coach was that morale is everything. Playing a game requires more than just technical skills and endless drills in practice. It takes heart. It takes pride and spirit. Morale is like capital to an athlete. It’s fuel. An athlete who feels good and confident in themself and their team can rally and come back from seemingly-hopeless odds. Those uniforms were part of his team’s morale. He wants to shake the superintendent. He wants to make him understand that it’s more than just the clothes on their backs. It’s the pride in themselves, their team, and their school. It’s what those new jerseys would’ve represented. He hopes that once the season picks up, the thrill of defending their title and going for a fourth championship win will be enough to help his players forget the setbacks.

* * *

Gina starts handing out the syllabus the moment the bell signalling the start of first period rings. “Start reading through it as soon as you get it,” she says. “We’ll go over it together as a class.” She pauses when she reaches the last row of desks. Only one seat is occupied. The girl sits three seats back, hunched over her notebook. Her face is hidden by a mess of dark brown, nearly-black curls, but she looks up when Gina gently places a copy of the syllabus on her desk. Her hazel eyes are wide and startled, magnified by the thick, vintage glasses that take up half her face. The math teacher offers her a soft half-smile, then slowly moves back to the front of the room as a student reads the heading of the syllabus, his voice monotonous and unhalting, completely ignoring punctuation. 

“Welcome to tenth grade geometry honors period one instructor Ms. Gina Porter room 207 email gporter at…” 

Gina suppresses a sigh and tries to remind herself that it’s not a reading class. 

When the bell rings, the students rise from their seats and practically bolt out the door, Gina’s “have a good day” barely registering as they join the throng in the hallway and push towards their next class. The girl in the last row hangs back, slowly sliding her pencil case into her black-and-white checked backpack before slinging it over one shoulder and adjusting her glasses. She shakes her head, shifting her thick curls away from her face and moves wordlessly toward the exit. 

For a moment, Gina hesitates and consults her class roster again. Annie Acosta. The telltale “T” beside her name denotes the girl as a transfer student. It’s a familiar sight for Gina. Her own name was marked in a similar fashion on nearly every attendance list she ever saw. 

“Annie?” she calls after the student, who practically jumps as she turns around. 

“Y-yes?” 

Gina moves around her desk and approaches the girl. She’s small and slight, probably just over five feet tall, and her oversized cardigan hangs off her shoulders. For a moment, the teacher hesitates, debating whether to say anything at all. There are two types of transfer student: the ones that are looking for a lifeline to cling on to, whether it’s a particularly nice student or a sympathetic teacher, and the ones who want nothing more than to blend into the background and fade into obscurity for the duration of the school year. She’s been both. She isn’t sure which Annie will be. 

“I couldn’t help but notice this is your first year,” she says. Soft approach. Let her fill in the rest if she wants to. 

Annie nods, her features relaxing ever-so-slightly. “I just transferred,” she says.

“Where from?” 

“Sacramento,” the girl sighs. “I just moved in with my grandparents two weeks ago.” 

Gina cocks her head to one side, an open invitation to continue if she so chooses. Annie takes it and presses on. “My dad just got deployed to South Korea.” 

Annie seems to visibly relax, as if she was looking for a way to get the words off her chest. It makes sense. While Gina was never a military brat, she’s familiar enough with the lifestyle. The constant upending of lives. The reshuffling and starting over. It’s not too different from her mother’s work with FEMA. She guesses that if Annie’s options were to live with her grandparents or move to South Korea with her dad, her mom must not be in the picture. She doesn’t ask. It’s almost always a touchy subject, and she never liked it when people tried to casually pry into her father’s whereabouts either.

Instead, Gina softens her face and says, “I just wanted to welcome you.” 

Annie looks like she might cry. “Thanks, Ms. Porter. You know, it’s funny ‘cause my dad is an East High grad and he was saying how easy it would be to make friends… But it’s not. I don’t know anybody.” 

“I’ve been there,” the math teacher nods. “One thing that always helped me? Find a club or a sport or some kind of activity you like. It’s always easier to meet people you’ve already got some common ground with.” 

Annie shrugs her shoulders. “I guess. But I don’t even know where to begin. I don’t even know what clubs there are.” 

Gina ponders for a moment, then smiles slowly. “How do you feel about robots?” 

* * *

Nini has just finished laying out her attendance sheet and her copy of the novel when the bell rings for the start of first period. Seconds later, a dark-haired streak bursts into the room and practically launches itself at her. 

“Ms. Salazar-Roberts! Oh my god, you don’t know how excited I was when I found out you were my English teacher this year.” The girl’s voice is one shrill, enthusiastic shriek. 

Nini has to take a moment to process Mariela hugging her ecstatically, practically jumping for joy. Then she’s practically jumping for joy, too, hugging the student warmly and then pulling back to look at her. Mariela’s dark hair has grown long over the summer, practically reaching the small of her back, and her complexion - tanner than usual - is a clear sign of time spent outdoors. She looks vibrant and glowing, exactly the way she did after opening night.

Nini’s first senior class includes a few familiar names from the drama club. Mariela, but also Rynn and Noah, and few members of the ensemble. By the time everyone is in their seats and attendance is taken, the room already feels cozy and familiar. The clusters of desks are intimate, almost coffee shop-like in their arrangement.

Nini writes the word “crucible” on the whiteboard and turns around. “We’re going to be starting our first book, soon. And it’s a rather fitting one for this class, I think, because it’s a play. And that means we’ll be doing a fair amount of acting.” 

Rynn’s hand goes up, her red curls shaking with the motion. “Speaking of plays and acting, can you tell us what this year’s musical will be?” A few eager, chattering agreements go up amongst the students.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” the teacher says with a secretive smile. “I think you’ll love it, though.” She turns back to the board. “Now, we’re starting  _ The Crucible  _ by Arthur Miller. And to begin, I thought we’d define what a crucible is. Any guesses?” 

Noah raises his hand languidly, slouching slightly in his seat. “Isn’t it that thing at the front of churches?” 

“Not quite,” Nini replies. “You’re thinking of a crucifix. But good guess. Any others?” 

She’s met with a sea of blank faces, most sitting attentively but avoiding eye contact, though a few students are still clearly on their summer sleep schedules, their eyes droopy and half-lidded. 

“So a crucible,” Nini says, “is a container. You put things like metal inside and melt them down. Think of a crucible like an oven, of sorts. It takes a lot of heat to melt metal, so the container has to be able to withstand the temperature while also melting whatever’s inside. And when you take the metal out of the crucible, it’s ready to be shaped into something brand new.”

“That’s not the only way to use the word, though,” she continues. “We also use it to talk about any difficult trial or challenge we face. We can use it to describe any hardship we’ve been through that has changed us. So for today, I would like you to turn to a clean page of your notebook, and I want you to write about a crucible you’ve experienced. Think about something you struggled with, and how it changed you. You can bullet point, write in paragraphs, or even draw a picture.” 

As she moves around the room, peering over shoulders, she sees a variety of responses. Kids who moved from town-to-town or school-to-school. Kids who lost people important to them. She glances at Mariela’s paper and smiles inwardly when she discovers the girl has chosen to write about the same thing Nini would have written about: last year’s musical.

When the bell rings, the students toss their supplies haphazardly into their backpacks. Nini cringes at how many pristine notebooks will likely be dog-eared and torn by tomorrow. Mariela hangs back as her classmates slowly start to shuffle out into the hallway. 

“Ms. Salazar-Roberts, I’m so excited for the show this year,” she says. 

“As am I,” Nini says fondly. “And I hope you’re going to try out. Maybe even for a lead?” 

Mariela smiles. “Of course. And even if I get understudy, I’ll be happy.” 

* * *

Ricky pores over the attendance roster as the first students slowly start to shuffle in, peering about with wide eyes and stepping uncertainly toward the row of chairs arranged in a half-circle facing the front of the room. The freshman band classes are usually among the largest, and Ricky’s done the math over and over, hoping for a miracle but knowing that no matter how he adds it up, he won’t have enough instruments to distribute. 

Four saxophones, six saxophonists. Eight clarinets, eleven clarinet players. A handful of flutes for nearly a dozen flautists. It’s like the world’s worst word problem, one where the answer is simply ‘it can’t be done.’ He lets out a sigh under his breath as his first class of the day takes their seats. The bell rings. Silence descends on the room. Dozens of eyes peer up at him. 

Ricky forces a smile. “Good morning, guys.” They murmur a greeting in return. “I’m Mr. Bowen. Welcome to freshman band. Show of hands, how many of you have played an instrument before, either in middle school or on your own?” Hands shoot up, the majority of the students. “Okay, and how many of you haven’t played an instrument before?” He counts three. “Well,” he says, a smile slowly spreading across his face. It’s the same speech he gave last year. It’s the same speech he plans to give every year because it’s true. “You’re going to learn very quickly that it doesn’t matter whether you’ve played an instrument for fifteen years or fifteen seconds. We’re always learning how to be better. And I want you to pay very close attention to this next part because it’s the most important thing I’m going to teach you all year. Anyone - everyone - can be a musician. In fact, just by being here, you’re already musicians. How far you want to take this is all up to you.” 

A blonde girl in the back row raises her hand and he nods to acknowledge her. “Mr. Bowen, when do we get our instruments?” 

Ricky has to fight not to wince at her question. “Right,” he says softly, “I was just coming to that. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get all the instruments we needed this year.” He watches their faces fall. “We’ll still have band class,” he tries to reassure him. “But it does mean that if you don’t own an instrument, you’ll have to rent one for the school year.” The words taste sour in his mouth and he feels a fresh wave of resentment towards Benjamin Mazzara for making him have to utter them out loud. “If renting an instrument is going to be a challenge for you, please come let me know in private so we can try to work something out. Like I said, you’re all musicians already just for showing up, and I want everyone to have a chance to grow.” 

They spend the remainder of the class going over the syllabus and expectations. Ricky had to hastily cut out a third of his procedures the night before. Sections like “Proper Care of School Instruments” and “What Happens If I Break My School Instrument?” were no longer relevant, though he’d saved a backup of the original document. Just in case. 

When the bell rings, the students get up and file out. Ordinarily, he would have ended class a few minutes early to give them a chance to pack up their instruments and put them away in the cage-style lockers, but that’s no longer a concern. One student, a plump, ruddy-faced boy with coppery hair, lingers, working his toe over a groove in the tiled floor. 

“Uh, Mr. Bowen? The boy says without looking up. 

“What’s up, Devin?” Ricky replies, tilting his head to try to catch the boy’s eyes. He seems almost startled that the music teacher has remembered his name already. 

“I, uh, well it’s about the instrument…” Devin looks around uncomfortably.

“Do you want to talk in my office?” Ricky suggests, and the boy nods. Together, they go to the tiny, wood-paneled room in the far corner of the classroom. Ricky takes a seat at his desk and encourages the boy to do the same. “So what’s up,” he asks again, arms folded on top of the desk. He cocks his head to one side, and hopes the look on his face is encouraging. 

Devin’s eyes fall to the floor once more, and Ricky wishes he could make the kid look up.It’s a familiar expression. One of defeat and uncertainty. Ricky’s sure the look doesn’t belong on the face of a fourteen year-old.

“Mr. Bowen...I don’t think I can rent an instrument,” he says. He looks up for a moment expectantly, as if waiting for Ricky to cut him off or ask why. But he doesn’t. He knows better than to prod. When he doesn’t ask, the boy continues. “Um, my parents are… Well, they’re not really split up. They’re just...separated, I guess. I-I don’t know. It’s just me and my dad right now so I don’t know if he can afford to rent an instrument.” 

Ricky’s heart skips a beat and he leans forward in his seat a little further. For a minute, he isn’t sure what to say. He can only think of what  _ not  _ to say. His mind swirls with every empty platitude, every meaningless encouragement, every wisecrack about having two Christmases and two birthdays that was meant to make him feel better but somehow made him feel worse. He settles for, “I’m sorry,” and hopes that despite their inadequacy, Devin can sense the sincerity in his words.

“So I guess I’ll talk to the guidance counselor after school and see if I can drop band,” Devin concludes. 

“No!” Ricky protests sharply, causing the student to look up in alarm. “If you want to stay in band, you should stay in band.” The music teacher’s head is buzzing. “It’s not fair that you should have to drop out because you can’t pay for a rental. You’re a trumpet, right?” The boy nods. “I don’t have any extra trumpets,” he tells him. “But don’t drop, Devin. I’m going to find a way to get you an instrument.” 

“Mr. Bowen, it’s really…” 

Ricky holds a hand up gently to stop him. “Do you want to be in band?” he asks simply.

“Well, yeah, I mean…”

“Then it’s that simple,” Ricky tells him. “I’m going to get you an instrument.” 

Nini always tells him he’s stubborn. It’s never an insult coming from her lips. She always says it lovingly, as if his refusal to back down is something to be admired and not a hazard to himself at times. It’s not news, of course. His parents said the same thing. Even Big Red would agree. Once he puts his mind to something, it gets done one way or another. His mother once said he would move a mountain before he gave up on reaching his destination. Getting a trumpet for Devin is his new destination. He decides that he’ll move any mountain - even Mount Mazzara - to get there.

* * *

Nini locks her classroom door and fishes in her purse for her car key, grinning triumphantly to herself. She hadn’t needed to hide Ricky’s keys that morning. She’d beaten him to the key peg fairly. And just like in air hockey, he was a graceful loser. She starts for the stairs when she spots Gina coming toward her from the main office, a bundle of light green papers in her hands. Instinctively, she moves to turn around, already plotting a course for the back stairwell. Then she remembers there’s no need for that anymore and she feels stupid. 

“Hey,” Gina greets, striding up to her, her heeled boots clicking along the hallway, now empty of students. 

“Hi,” Nini smiles, trying to force the sheepishness from her tone. “What’s that?” she eyes the papers in Gina’s hand. 

“Oh,” the math teacher hands her one. “Flyers for the robotics club. Would you mind hanging one in your room? I’m trying to get as many people as I can to turn out for the interest meeting.” 

“Sure!” Nini unlocks her room and flicks the lights on once more. 

Gina follows her in. “Mr. Mazzara said he wants to expand the club this year, and he’s letting me lead the expansion. If everything goes well, we might even score a chance to compete in China over the summer!”

Nini’s eyes light up. “That’s great!” she says, affixing the flyer to the whiteboard. Front and center, right beneath the date, which she’s already changed for tomorrow. 

“God, I hope this goes well,” Gina says, and Nini catches a glimpse of something she thought she’d never see. Gina is giddy. Girlish. She clutches the flyers close to her chest like a lovesick ingenue and for a moment, Nini wonders if she’ll sigh wistfully, too. 

She has to admit, as amusing as it is to see her coworker - her friend - like this, she understands. And she’s certain she’ll behave similarly when the auditions for the musical are announced. “I hope it goes well for you, too,” Nini says as she locks up. They part ways with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed fleshing out EJ's story a little bit more - I've found him to be quite compelling to write lately. I hope yo enjoyed it, too. "Sunrise" is from the musical "In The Heights!" Did you get it right? Let me know! 
> 
> Also, I know I'm teasing this year's musical but I'll give you a hint: I'm really glad that you've all become part of my world. Not obvious enough? You poor, unfortunate soul. Drop your guesses and stay safe out there! Next chapter will be heavily Rini-centric for all my fellow Rini shippers out there.


	5. A Soft Place To Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back with another installment! Thank you to anyone who read, left kudos, or took the time to comment. I've been in a bit of a writing slump lately and they were super motivating. Also, I've been LOVING reading all of your works, too, because when I get blocked on my own writing, nothing inspires me more than the works of others. I'm pretty proud of this chapter, and I hope you'll read and let me know what you think. It's entirely Rini-centric, inspired in part by all the content from #RiniBreakdown on Twitter. Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Also, "A Soft Place To Land." What musical is it from? Check at the end to find out!

There are things Nini has come to learn about Ricky since they started dating. The more time she spends with her boyfriend, the more she discovers about him. He’ll put something on TV and immediately start scrolling through his phone, processing half of each. She’s always found this funny. She knows he doesn’t just sing in the shower; he belts. She knows that he always has to have a glass of water on the nightstand when he goes to bed. He never drinks it, but it’s always there. Just in case. When they go grocery shopping (its own form of intimacy), he pushes the cart like he’s riding a skateboard: one foot balanced on the back of the cart and the other pushing off the ground. 

She knows he murmurs to himself when he’s concentrating, and sometimes she eavesdrops just to hear the unfiltered thoughts in his head. She knows that when he’s writing a song, he’ll hum the same notes for days until they lead somewhere. She likes to think of lyrics to match them. She knows Ricky gets a very specific look on his face when his mother calls. She can never place the emotion, no matter how many times she studies him. A flash of anger. A pang of guilt. A moment of wistful longing. And underlying it all, a slightly shattered, deflated look. 

She also knows that when Ricky is particularly restless or agitated, he breaks out the balance board that’s taken up permanent residence under her couch. It always makes her nervous to see her boyfriend teetering, ready to lose his footing at any moment. He never does. Years of skateboarding have made him sure-footed in ways she can’t ever dream of achieving, and as much as she hates to watch, she also can’t look away. 

He’s been shifting his weight back and forth on the board for almost a half hour now, his back to her. The TV is on low volume, playing a home renovation show that neither of them is watching. Nini tries to distract herself from the minor heart attacks Ricky gives her with each seemingly off-kilter sway of his body, but she can only read for a few minutes before she inevitably has to check on him again. She sets her copy of  _ Little Fires Everywhere  _ down on the couch beside her and speaks up, unable to contain herself any longer.

“Babe, you’ve been going at it for a half hour now. What’s wrong?” 

“Huh?” Ricky plants one foot on the rug and turns to face her, completely unaware that she’s been watching him the whole time. 

Nini’s eyes trail from his face to the balance board, then back up. “You’re anxious,” she states, because she knows him well enough that she doesn’t need to confirm. 

“Restless,” he corrects.

“Anxious,” she counters.

“Anxiously restless,” Ricky offers. 

She tucks one leg under her and pats the space beside her, moving her hardcover to the coffee table. Ricky obeys without question, and the moment the sofa dips under his weight, she reaches over, grasps his hand, and pulls him closer so that he’s reclining against her. 

Ricky feels his heart skip a beat and brings his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes are warm, deep, and inviting. They urge him to give over some of his troubles. Nini’s hand is steady and solid. It doesn’t falter under the weight of his anxiety. His therapist used to encourage him to find a way to anchor himself. He never liked the metaphor. Anchors are heavy. They weigh things down. Nini is a buoy - unflinching in the current, floating amid the choppiest of seas, laying out safe passage to shore.

He feels his breath, which had been coming in shallow bursts mere moments ago, start to slow. His heart, which was beating against his ribcage and protesting its imprisonment inside his chest, settles. His exhale is audible, and when his eyes refocus on his girlfriend, she’s still before him, holding his gaze. Her expression is serene, devoid of judgment. It occurs to him that she’s never seen him have a panic attack. He hasn’t had a panic attack in nearly two years. And while he wasn’t having a panic attack at this moment, it’s the closest he’s come in a long time. 

“How’d you know?” he asks softly. 

Nini laughs an easy, humorous giggle. “My grandmother’s a psychologist. You can’t be raised around a psychologist and not come away with a few tricks. Besides,” she adds, “I  _ know  _ you. So tell me what’s on your mind.” 

Confessing things to Nini is as easy as confessing them to himself. Perhaps easier, because Nini never judges the things inside his head. And moments like these, moments when he’s reminded of just how well she knows him, are how he knows he’s in love with Nini Salazar-Roberts. Or at least, what he thinks love must feel like. He opens his mouth to tell her this - the product of many months of rumination that have only confirmed what he knew since their first week of dating. But he stops short. He wonders if her psychologist upbringing can see through him. He hopes that she gets the message without him having to say it. Love, Ricky Bowen has learned, is best kept to yourself. It breaks easily when said out loud. 

Nini squeezes his hand - a quick pulse to remind him that she’s still there. “It’s the instruments, isn’t it?” she asks.

Ricky’s jaw falls open and for a moment, all he can do is marvel at her. “How’d you know?” he repeats.

She smirks secretively and taps the side of her head with one finger. “I’m like a Jedi. I can read minds.” 

He laughs at this, shaking his head. “That’s a mind  _ trick _ , babe.” 

“Whatever! Close enough!” she chuckles.

She hadn’t seen a single  _ Star Wars  _ film until he’d made her watch them all over the course of several weekends. It was clear she didn’t quite follow the story, and in truth, they were far less epic than he remembered them being in his childhood. But she’d sat patiently through them and now here she is, attempting to make a reference to the movies. He loves her. He knows it.

“There’s a kid,” Ricky sighs. “Devin. Freshman. He can’t afford to rent a trumpet because his parents separated recently.” He hears Nini’s breath hitch. “And I don’t have any spare trumpets to give him. So I don’t know what I’m gonna do. He wants to be here. I can tell. And I want him to be here. I don’t wanna tell him he can’t be in band because he can’t get an instrument.”

Nini brushes his knuckles with her thumb. It’s more than the trumpet, and she knows it even if Ricky won’t admit it.

“It’s such a  _ stupid  _ reason,” Ricky huffs. “It’s like telling a kid they can’t take a math class because they don’t have a pencil.”

“I know,” she soothes. She’s seen Ricky defeated before. She knows what it looks like when he’s losing hope. And she knows how to bring him back from moments like that, just like he knows how to bring her back from her moments of frustration, when she’s this close to flying off the handle. But the anger is new. She’s seen Ricky annoyed. She’s seen him frustrated. She can’t recall ever seeing him angry. She doesn’t know how to bring him back from that.

“You’ve been up against tough odds before,” Nini reminds him. “You’ve overcome them all. You’re an unstoppable force of nature, Ricky Bowen.” She squeezes his hand once more for emphasis. 

Nini’s met a lot of unstoppable forces in her life. Her moms, whose defiant commitment to love overcame every prejudice in the legal system. (They weren’t married officially until 2014). Kourtney, who flew in the face of every naysayer on her climb to the top of the fashion industry, and who continues to fly in their faces today. EJ, whose play-to-win philosophy meant he seldom tasted defeat. Gina, whose desperate wish to make a home for herself placed them on a crash course. That same dauntless nature is driving their efforts to repair the damage last year wrought. 

Nini is not an unstoppable force. Nini is a warning beacon. She is a soft place to land. And at some point in her life, she’s thrown herself on the tracks to try to stop the unstoppable forces in her life from colliding with a wall, or to pad the fallout from the inevitable collision.

Ricky is different. Ricky is the first unstoppable force she’s never tried to stop. He’s the first unstoppable force she’s given herself over to, because she knows if he hits a wall, he’ll just plow through it and assess the damage to himself later (if he stops to assess the damage to himself at all). Ricky doesn’t heed warning beacons, and he doesn’t need a soft place to land. What he needs is someone who will help him make field repairs. And that’s one of the many items on her ever-growing list of reasons why she loves him so much. Ricky is an unstoppable force. But Benjamin Mazzara is an immovable object. She knows how that paradox goes.

“I’m going to get Devin a trumpet,” Ricky says petulantly. Nini stifles a giggle and tries not to think of how adorable he is when he’s slumped against her and pouting sulkily. 

“I know you will, babe,” she says, pressing a soft kiss to his temple and teasing her fingers through his curls. 

He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through Amazon listings for trumpets. He’s fixating, and she knows it’s because he has nothing else to focus on. It’s a weekend. The year’s just started. They haven’t begun planning for the musical yet. There’s nothing to grade. Neither of them have ever been very good at being idle. The idea seems so simple when it strikes her: the perfect way to get Ricky out of his head. 

“Alright, that’s enough screen time for now,” she says, gently taking his phone from him. He sits up and looks at her quizzically. “Go get dressed, Mr. Bowen.”

“What? Why?” 

Her eyes are twinkling and her smile is knowing. “I’m taking you out, handsome,” she says simply. 

His lips tweak upward in a grin. “Oh are you, now?” he asks. 

“Mmm-hmm,” she nods. “So go get dressed.” 

He rises off the couch and spins to face her, offering her his hand and pulling her up to stand in front of him. He leans down, his breath warm and ticklish against her ear. “And what would you like me to wear?” he asks huskily. 

Nini shudders, unable to fight the wave of heat that spreads like wildfire throughout her body. His fingers are still wrapped lightly around her wrists, sending goosebumps up and down her arms. Her mind goes blank momentarily and she has to remind herself to breathe. 

“We could just stay in,” Ricky murmurs, walking his fingers up her arms, leaving pinpricks in their wake. 

She’s tempted to forget the whole thing and drag him off to bed, but she knows that there will still be hours to fill afterwards. Hours to spiral. “Or,” she suggests, nuzzling against him and slowly working her arms free from his grip, letting them fall to his waist instead, “you could let me take you out now, and when we get back…”

She feels him grin against her cheek and he plants a kiss there. “To be continued,” he murmurs, pulling back. His pupils are blown wide, black overtaking brown in a solar eclipse. She releases him reluctantly, and they move slowly toward the bedroom to change. 

“Okay, so seriously, do I dress up?” Ricky asks. “Because the nicest things I have here are work clothes.” 

Nini sweeps up behind him, reaching into his drawer and pulling out a pair of gray jeans. “These’ll work,” she says, patting his shoulder. “Dress comfortably.” She can feel his eyes following her as she makes her way toward the bathroom and resists the urge to tell him to close his mouth. 

* * *

The early-evening sun is shining, tinting everything gold. Nini puts on her sunglasses and cranks the air conditioning up as soon as she starts the car. Ricky slides into the passenger seat beside her, fumbling for his seatbelt. 

“Am I allowed to know where we’re going now?” he asks.

“No, it’s a surprise,” Nini replies breezily, angling her phone screen away from him as she inputs the address into the GPS. 

Ricky huffs good-naturedly and crosses his arms as she throws the car into reverse and pulls out of the condo complex. Five minutes in, he slides his eyes toward her and smirks mischievously. “Are we there yet?” he asks.

Nini bites back a grin. “No.” 

“How ‘bout now?” 

“Nope.” 

“Now?” 

“Keep it up, Richard. I’ll drop you off at your apartment instead.” 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the windowless, technicolor form of Salt Lake Roller Skate looms before them. The neon signs are fully lit despite the fact that the late-summer sun is still out. Nini maneuvers the car around the families and teenagers that mill about in the parking lot before pulling into the first space she finds. 

“Roller skating?” Ricky questions.

“Yeah,” Nini kills the engine. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid so I figured we’d be on pretty even ground. Ready to try a different kind of skating?” 

“You see, my dear Nini, that’s where you’re wrong,” he smirks. “Because skateboarding is  _ not  _ my only skate-related talent.”

“Oh really?” she asks incredulously.

“Really,” he nods. “I’ve been known to tear up a rink or two in my day.” 

Nini stares at him for a moment, trying to determine whether he’s lying. He reaches for the door handle and throws the passenger door open. “Prepare to be amazed, Neens.” She rolls her eyes as she gets out after him and refuses to admit just how attractive she finds his cockiness. 

Salt Lake Roller Skate is exactly the way she remembers it from her childhood. The carpet is black and covered in riotous, neon-colored confetti patterns. A cacophony of 80s music, screaming kids, warbling arcade games, and the steady hum of skate wheels on wood echoes all around them. The air is perfumed with a mixture of popcorn, fryer grease, and the vague scent of cigarette smoke wafting in from outside. The lighting is dim, and a strobing disco ball hangs from the ceiling in the center of the rink, winking its multicolored pattern over the skaters moving in a clockwise direction.

“Kourtney and I used to have our birthday parties here every year in elementary school,” she tells him, shouting so that her voice carries above the din. Ricky’s seen the pictures that Nini keeps affixed to a clothesline above her desk: little Nini, eight years-old and dressed in overalls, a polka-dotted party horn tucked between her lips while little Kourtney stands beside her, hair two times bigger than her head, dressed in a multi-colored windbreaker. He loves when Nini brings him to places like this - places where she grew up. They make him feel closer to her. They make him feel like he’s been a part of her life all along. 

Nini rents their skates - white with orange wheels for him, black with lime green for her. “Need me to teach you how to lace them?” she asks haughtily. It ignites something in him. 

“We’ll see how smug you are when you’re eating my dust on the rink,” he replies, following her to a row of plastic benches where they squeeze themselves into their skates. Nini finishes first and stands, steadying herself. She turns to face Ricky, hands on her hips, and for a moment the height difference between them is narrowed. Then he finishes lacing his skates up and rises, evening them out again. 

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.” 

He takes her hand and glides off toward the rink with Nini in tow. They find an opening and join the swirling tide of skaters, moving around the perimeter like fish in a tank while the bassline of “Sweet Dreams are Made of This” shakes the ground. Annie Lennox’s voice pours silkily from the speakers. She looks up at him, bathed in the strobing lights of the disco ball that paint him red, then green, then blue, then purple. He mouths the words back at her.

As the song comes to an end, Ricky releases her hand and takes off, his legs pumping furiously as he gains speed around the first curve. She’s certain he’s going to wipe out and holds her breath, waiting for her boyfriend to impact the wall. Instead, he leans easily to his right, riding the apex of the turn before kicking off again. He makes eye contact with her halfway around the rink and she shakes her head in amusement.

A loud opening note bursts forth from the speakers as a Katrina and the Waves song starts up. Ricky appears by her side again trying his best to act casual, but his ragged breathing gives him away. He grins down at her innocently as the first verse starts. He mouths the words again, and she mouths them back.

_ I used to think maybe you loved me, now baby I'm sure _

_ And I just can't wait till the day when you knock on my door _

_ Now every time I go for the mailbox, gotta hold myself down _

_ 'Cause I just can't wait 'til you write me you're coming around _

As the chorus picks up, he takes off again and spins around to face her, skating backwards. Nini lets out a noise, halfway between a laugh and a cry of amazement and terror. He points to her with one hand, the other holding an imaginary microphone to his face as he lip-syncs  _ I’m walking on sunshine _ . 

She fixes him with a disapproving glare, but it’s ruined by the amusement playing on her features as she quickens her pace to close the distance between them. “You’re reckless, Bowen,” she chastises him mildly. 

“Yeah, but you love it,” he replies, punctuating the statement with a short hop as he spins back around and reaches for her hand. 

_ I love you _ , she thinks, interlacing their fingers.

* * *

By the time they finish skating, Nini’s hamstrings are screaming for mercy and Ricky’s curls are matted with sweat. “I know we said we’d be better, but I think we’ve earned ourselves some junk food,” she declares as they exit the rink and head for the benches to remove their skates. 

“Nachos?” he says hopefully, and she can’t deny him anything when he has that childlike look in his eyes. Besides, they’ve worked hard and nachos sound really good right about now.

Ricky finishes gulping down his Mountain Dew and plucks a jagged crumb of leftover tortilla chip from the basket, swiping it through the remaining dregs of cheese sauce before popping it into his mouth. Nini makes a face at him as she sips her Sprite.

“Okay, you’ve treated me. My turn to treat you,” he announces, pulling a twenty out of his wallet. 

Nini frowns, and when she opens her mouth to speak, the straw falls from her lips. The drinking end is chewed flat. “What are you doing?” She watches as he approaches the token vending machine in the arcade, inserts the twenty, and returns with a fistful of shiny gold coins. 

“I’m treating you… to a buttkicking,” he says, sliding half the tokens to her. 

She picks them up gamely. “Oh, we’ll see about that.” 

He leads her over to an arcade cabinet plastered in images of demented-looking zombies. The premise of the game seems simple enough. Each player gets a plastic rifle, and the objective is to shoot as many zombies as possible. They each insert two tokens. Nini picks up the red rifle, its trigger slippery with pizza grease. Ricky grabs the blue and together they prepare to take on the first wave of radioactive monsters. She tries not to scream each time one of the yellow-eyed, gray-skinned ghouls launches itself at her side of the screen. Every time one comes at her, Ricky turns and fires at it, even if it leaves him vulnerable to attack. Neither of them makes it past the second wave, and they agree to call it even. 

She defeats Ricky handily in air hockey, but he picks up an easy win against her on the basketball game and skee-ball. Nini leaves him in her dust on the racing game. They end the night redeeming their tickets at the prize counter. Ricky chooses a chunky plastic ring, bright yellow and shaped like a star. He slides it onto her finger when the teenager working the prize counter hands it to him. Nini momentarily considers choosing a plastic recorder for him, then realizes it might be in poor taste given his current instrument problems. She chooses a finger skateboard instead, and Ricky performs a kickflip with his index and middle fingers on the glass case when she wheels it toward him.

The sun has set by the time they make their way out to the car, and the neon signs on the front of the skating rink cast a bright purple glow over them. Nini steals a quick glance at her boyfriend as they cross the parking lot. There is a content set to his face, his lips curved upward in a soft, easy smile. She leans her head against his arm and knows there isn’t anything she wouldn’t give to see him smile like that all the time.

* * *

Ricky pulls Nini close the moment the front door is shut. They haven’t even turned the lights on when he wh ispers, “Now where were we?” 

She turns away as he leans in to capture her lips with his, giggling. “We were about to go shower because we’re covered in sweat and god knows what else,” she laughs.

Ricky hums, low and quiet in her ear in a way leaves her tingling. “Save water…?” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, his roguish grin visible even in the darkness.

“There is no way both of us would fit in that shower stall,” she says, swatting his arm playfully. Not that she hasn’t entertained the idea herself. “Patience,” she admonishes him, pressing against him and relishing in the slight groan he gives in return. 

* * *

Later that night, Nini lays against Ricky. His hair is mussed, curls sticking up at odd angles where her fingers tangled within them, and his t-shirt is askew, hastily thrown back on without a second glance. The bottom button of her pajama shirt hangs open, and she fiddles with the hem absent-mindedly. When she looks up, she’s startled to find him staring at her. 

“What are you thinking about?” she asks softly.

“You.” 

She feels heat rising from her collarbone to her cheeks and averts her eyes subconsciously. “What about me?” 

“How incredible you are,” he says, tipping her head so that they’re looking at each other fully. A strange look passes over his face, and for a moment he looks like he wants to say more. For a moment, she’s certain he will. But he doesn’t. 

Then she thinks she might tell him instead because right here, in this bed with Ricky Bowen, she’s never been more certain of her feelings for him. But she doesn’t. Instead, she settles for, “You’re pretty incredible yourself.” And then she rises up and seals her lips against his.

“Thank you,” he murmurs sleepily.

“For what?” 

“For today. For taking me out and getting my mind off this whole instrument thing. I needed it.” 

Nini leans over and kisses him again. “We’ll figure it out, babe. Together.” 

* * *

Ricky sleeps soundly that night, with Nini cuddled into his side, her gentle exhales tickling his cheek. The tension - the restless dreams that plague him when his anxiety starts to spike - can’t touch him when she’s there to buoy him.

Nini studies the way Ricky looks in the dark. When her eyes adjust, and with the moonlight filtering in through the gauzy white curtains, she can just make out his profile: the jagged cut of his jawline, the way his nose curves, the long, dark lashes that flutter ever-so-slightly in his sleep. She tries to ignore the disappointed feeling that lingers in her stomach and leaves a sour taste in her mouth. It’s not disappointment in him, or even in herself. 

It should be so simple. Three words. I, love, and you. Words they both use every day, and yet never string into a complete phrase addressed to one another. She could say them and dispel this madness, speak into existence what they both already know to be true. She can’t blame Ricky for his reluctance. She knows very little about her boyfriend’s parents. She’s only ever met Mike over FaceTime, and she’s spoken to Lynne over the phone exactly once. Ricky’s told her plenty, though. 

She knows about the messy divorce. She knows that Lynne was carrying on an affair with the man who would eventually become Ricky’s stepfather, though he’s loath to use the word. She knows that up until then, the Bowens were a happy family living in Ogden. After that, they were fractured and split apart. His dad fled to Denver and his mom took him to Chicago. So she doesn’t hold Ricky’s gun-shy nature against him. She can’t.

But she also can’t tell him she loves him. If he isn’t ready to hear it or say it back, it will only make him feel worse. He needs to be the one to make the first move. She just wishes he would, already, because taking it slow is difficult when he makes her want to move fast. Nini huffs and stares at the ceiling, chiding herself because it’s embarrassing. She loves Ricky Bowen. She’s pretty sure Ricky Bowen loves her. So why should either of them need to say it out loud if they know it in their hearts?

Beside her, Ricky lets out a slow exhale, the faint trace of a smile on his lips as he pulls her tighter towards him. Her mind goes blank, her frustration forgotten as she allows herself to drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dying to do more domestic Rini and more sweet, couple-y moments in general between these two, so this was pure indulgence for me. I've got lots more planned, of course! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, the title is shared with a song off the "Waitress" soundtrack. I highly encourage you to give this one a listen. It's soft and gentle and dreamy. 
> 
> Also, also, if you want to connect, my Tumblr is ebi-pers. Shoot me a message on there - I would love to talk writing, HSMTMTS, life, art, etc. Anything you need. I'm sure we could both use the distraction.


	6. Poor Unfortunate Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the new chapter! Thank you all so very much for your support and comments, for reading and leaving kudos. I'll always sing the praises of this fandom on AO3 - you are genuinely the kindest and most thoughtful bunch of folks I've ever had the pleasure of talking to. I hope you'll enjoy. The chapter title probably doesn't need any explanation, but check at the end to see if you guessed it right anyway!

“What about Tuesday?” Ricky asks, pointing to the date with the eraser end of his pencil while Nini leans over to look at the desk calendar.

“No good,” she says. “I have a department meeting after school. Wednesday?” 

“Mmm, can’t,” Ricky winces. “I promised Big Red I’d watch the shop for a couple hours after school. He has to meet with a supplier in Sandy.” 

“Well, we can’t do auditions on a Friday. Nobody would show up,” Nini points out.

“Thursday?” he turns to her, a smile tugging at his lips as he faintly circles the date. 

“Thursday it is,” she agrees. 

He scribbles in  _ LITTLE MERMAID AUDITIONS!!!  _ On the calendar. Extra exclamation points. “Well now that we have an audition date, all that’s left to do is get the word out,” he says. “I’ll start texting people?”

“Me, too. And I can have flyers printed,” she offers. “I’m friendly with the guy that runs the print shop. I could probably get a poster done up cheap. We could hang it in the lobby.” 

“Perfect,” Ricky says. “And I’ve been working on what to say over the morning announcements. How’s this: come and join us  _ under the sea _ .” He nudges her playfully and she rolls her eyes, failing to bite back the grin on her face. “Yeah, you’re right. That was weak,” he concedes. “What about, come audition for this year’s show or the only  _ poor unfortunate soul  _ will be you.” 

Nini giggles. “That sounds so ominous. We’re a drama club, not the mob.” 

He shrugs and ponders it for a moment, resting the pencil against his bottom lip. “Okay, okay, I’ve got it. Ready? Thank you for being our guest last year. This year, we invite you to be  _ part of our world _ .” He eyes her hopefully. “C’mon, you gotta admit that one’s good.” 

“I have to hand it to you, babe,” she nods. “That one was pretty good.” 

A tentative knock on the doorpost interrupts them, and Ricky looks up to see a copper-haired boy, pale and round, standing stiffly in the doorway. His wide, green eyes dart back and forth between Ricky and Nini in the seat beside him. “Sorry, Mr. Bowen. I can, uh, come back…” 

“No, it’s alright, Devin,” Ricky insists, his face softening into a gentle smile. “Come in.” The boy inches into the office. “This is Ms. Salazar-Roberts. She teaches English and co-directs the musical with me.” 

Nini waves, surveying the freshman who has just barely stepped beyond the doorway. He’s small - a baby, really, she thinks - and she can see why Ricky’s already started to take the boy under his wing. She would, too. 

“I think I’ve solved our instrument problem,” Ricky says, his smile sly, as if it’s a secret only the three of them can ever know. “I was able to track down a trumpet. It should be getting here any day now and you’ll be all set.” 

Nini knows it’s a lie. A white lie, but a lie nonetheless. Ricky paid for the trumpet himself. She watched him order it off Amazon. It cost $200, and he’ll almost certainly never get reimbursed for it, but faced with the situation herself, she’s certain she would have done the same. But he won’t tell Devin that. He won’t make the boy feel like a charity case, and he won’t make him bear the guilt of compelling a teacher - intentionally or not - to spend money on him. She didn’t know Ricky in high school, but she knows Ricky now, and she’s positive that teenaged Ricky wouldn’t have wanted to be treated with pity, either. 

“So I can stay in band?” Devin asks, eyes widening even further.

Ricky nods his head. “You sure can, if that’s what you want to do.” 

For a moment, it looks like the freshman is going to literally jump for joy. Or perhaps cry. Maybe both. He bends his knees as if getting ready to spring upward, but he collects himself just in time. “Thank you, Mr. Bowen,” he says. 

“It’s nothing,” Ricky replies. 

It’s his standard reply whenever anyone expresses gratitude for anything he’s done, and it’s one more thing that she loves about Ricky Bowen. His generosity comes with no strings. When he says “it’s nothing,” he means it quite literally. Hold a door open? It’s nothing. Spot someone a dollar? It’s nothing. Give someone the shirt off his back? It’s nothing. Every act of kindness, however large or small, comes without the expectation of repayment. 

“We won’t start working with our instruments for a couple of days,” Ricky continues, “So you’ll have plenty of time to get familiar with your trumpet when it gets here.” 

The homeroom bell rings and Devin jumps visibly. When he recovers, he looks back and forth between the two teachers again. “Actually, I have one more question,” he says.

“Anything,” Ricky invites. 

“I heard there’s a pit ensemble for the musical,” he says. “Is that a thing?” 

Ricky turns to Nini, and she swears if he was smiling any wider it would outgrow his face. “Absolutely!” he answers. “Are you thinking of auditioning?” 

The boy shrugs. “Kind of.”

“I think that would be awesome,” the music teacher says. “Right, Ms. Salazar-Roberts?” 

“Right,” Nini nods. 

“We just set the date for musical auditions. Pit auditions won’t be for a while, but I’ll work with you to get ready. Sound good?” 

Devin nods so hard, for a moment it looks like his neck might snap. With another hurried “Thank-you-Mr.-Bowen” he rushes off to his homeroom class, leaving Ricky beaming in his wake. Nini beams, too. 

* * *

Ricky rarely sets foot in the teachers’ lounge. Gina once described it as a snake pit. In hindsight, given what she’d been planning at the time, he’s reasonably sure the only snake in the room had been her, but he’s nonetheless avoided the place whenever possible. He’s a little surprised to find it occupied when he enters with an armful of sheet music to copy. He’s even more surprised when he finds it occupied by people he knows. Ashlyn sits at a round table, grading quizzes in purple ink. Beside her, Seb thumbs through his phone, scrolling much too quickly to actually be reading anything. Gina sits across from him, a pale pink mug before her with the telltale string of a tea bag hanging over the rim.

“Hey,” Seb greets as Ricky crosses to the copier. “Nini told me you guys are doing auditions next week?” 

“Thursday,” Ricky confirms, setting the machine to make sixty copies and grabbing a seat with them. “Just need to clear it with Principal Gutierrez. Nini and I are meeting him at 3:30.” 

Gina dips her tea bag in her mug a few times. “What’s the show this year?”

“ _ The Little Mermaid _ ! And you’re all invited to be...” he trails off.

Seb arches a brow. “Part of your world?” he suggests.

Ricky grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It occurs to me that I may be overusing that joke already...” 

Seb shrugs, his eyes shining behind his glasses. “I’ve been wanting to choreograph something  _ Little Mermaid- _ related ever since my parents took me to Disney on Ice when I was seven. I just never had a reason to.”

“Well, here’s your reason,” Ricky says brightly, then turns to Ashlyn. “Ash?” he asks, grinning hopefully. “You in?”

Ashlyn smiles modestly, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I mean, I’ve only been pitching an Atlantis-themed expansion to the Renaissance Faire since  _ forever _ …” 

Ricky pumps his fist victoriously. “Yes! Seriously, you guys really came through for us last year. It just wouldn’t be the same without you.” 

Gina stares into the depths of her mug, breathing in the steam as it rises from within. Ricky dips his head to catch her eyes.

“Gina?” he asks. His expression is inviting, an assurance that he means no harm, and between his gentle tone and the steam heating her face, she starts to relax. “We’re gonna need a tech crew…” he begins.

She brightens. “The robotics team would be happy to help out again,” she says, hoping her tone sounds casual. “It’s good practice with wires and circuits. Plus, Mr. Mazzara wants to expand the robotics program this year. What better way than to help out the rest of the school?” 

“Speaking of Mr. Mazzara,” Seb interjects after glancing around the room surreptitiously, ensuring there are no eavesdroppers, “Thoughts on our new superintendent?” 

Ricky snorts and tries to hide the bitterness underlying the sound. “He decimated my budget, if that tells you anything.” 

“He  _ what _ ?” Gina questions incredulously. 

Ricky makes a face. “He slashed almost all my funding. Something about upgrading the chemistry lab. I’m literally asking students to rent their own instruments.” 

“Oh,” the math teacher blinks. 

“If it’s any consolation,” Seb offers, “He basically said I’m pointless and that there’s no reason to have a dance class in a school.” 

Gina winces and Ricky falls silent for a moment before leaning over and patting Seb on the arm. “You’re not pointless, dude. Your work speaks for itself. I mean, c’mon. You even managed to make me a halfway decent dancer.” 

“Ricky’s right,” Gina offers. “You’re awesome, Seb. He just doesn’t know it yet.” 

“Thanks,” the blond replies, but the look on his face doesn’t brighten.

Ashlyn shakes her head. “Don’t take a word he says to heart. Either of you.”

“Kinda hard not to,” the dance teacher murmurs.

The history teacher reaches out and lays a hand gently over his. “Listen to me. If history teaches us anything, it’s that new leaders come in with big ideas. It takes a little while to figure out what will and won’t work. And completely slashing the music budget is definitely not going to work. Making the dance teacher feel like he’s pointless is definitely not going to work.” She glances at Gina furtively for a moment and hesitates, as if she wants to say more. But she doesn’t and instead settles for, “It’s gonna suck for a while, but we’ve got each other’s backs, right? And by this time next year, he’ll realize his mistake.” 

There’s something about the confidence in Ashlyn’s voice that makes Ricky believe. “Right,” he agrees. Mazzara isn’t the first person he’s worked with whose ambitions came at the expense of everyone else. He forces himself to tamp the thought down. 

“Right,” Gina concurs, her voice soft. She stares pensively into her tea for a moment longer, then rises from the table. “I should get back to my classroom. Prep period’s almost over. Catch you guys later?” 

“Yeah, see you later,” Seb’s face softens into a smile. 

Ricky watches as the math teacher steps out the door and disappears around the corner. For a moment, doubt rises from the pit of his stomach, slick and unsettling. It worms its way up to his throat and threatens to work its way into his brain. He has to remind himself that Gina’s different now. He doesn’t quite understand what occurred between her and Nini while they were in California, but whatever it was, she’s changed for the better. Nini attests to it, and if Nini believes, then so does he. Even if Gina’s the only person out of their group that seems to be benefiting from their change of leadership. 

* * *

EJ wraps his hand around the cool metal of the doorknob and feels it give when he tugs. He’s hardly ever set foot in the music room. A gust of cool air greets him as he enters. He takes in the porous walls, the upright piano, and the half-moon of chairs arranged around a conductor’s stand. He takes another tentative step, as if a landmine might detonate if he doesn’t tread carefully. He knows he’s being ridiculous. Ricky Bowen is the furthest thing from intimidating. He’s more like a puppy: bright-eyed and eager. Except there are a billion reasons why he’s probably Ricky’s least favorite person on Earth, and he’s pretty sure that no amount of commiserating over the new superintendent is going to fix that. He’s not sure anything can truly fix it, but he hopes an offer to help with the crew again is a good start.

“Mr. Bowen stepped out, but he’ll be back… Oh.” Nini emerges from Ricky’s office, stopping dead in her tracks when she spots him. EJ halts, too, and for a moment they regard one another, six tiles separating them. Neither takes a step.

EJ is the first to recover. “Uh, hey,” he says, hoping his tone comes off as casual, hand instinctively gripping the back of his neck.

“Hi,” she replies. 

He shifts his weight from his right leg to his left while Nini fixes her gaze on a small scratch on the side of the piano. “Is -” EJ begins, just as Nini starts to speak. They both fall silent. “You first,” he insists.

Nini clears her throat. “I was just going to say that Ricky stepped out to grab lunch…” 

A brief, familiar pang shoots through EJ’s chest as he realizes that this time last year, he would’ve been the one picking up lunch for the both of them. His first instinct is to bat the thought away, force it back into a box before it has a chance to take hold.  _ Observe the thought and reroute it _ . Ashlyn, leaning on her knowledge from her psychology minor, calls it thought stopping: interrupting unwanted ideas before they lead to a spiral. So he reroutes the thought. He’s not the one bringing lunch to Nini anymore, but he’s happy someone is. When he looks up again, he realizes Nini is waiting expectantly. 

“Well?” she asks, trying to force the impatience from her tone.

“Huh?” 

“I said I could take a message. For Ricky?” 

“Oh. Right,” EJ replies. “Actually, it’s fine. I can just talk to you about it.” He had planned to talk to her about it until it occurred to him that he might bother her. “I was just… Ash told me you guys are gearing up for the musical and I wanted to see if you guys needed any help. You know, with moving stuff around or...whatever…”

Nini arches a brow, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “Well, we’ll definitely need a stage crew…” she begins.

“I’ll be there,” he promises. 

She perks up a little, and the corner of her mouth kicks up into a small smile. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready. It’ll probably be a little while. Auditions aren’t till next Thursday and -”

“I’m back!” Ricky announces, brandishing two cardboard takeout boxes triumphantly. His eyes widen momentarily when they fall on EJ, but they relax just as quickly. “Oh. Hey, EJ.” His tone is inviting, perhaps a bit exaggerated but warm nonetheless.

EJ tips his head and offers a small wave as Ricky hands Nini her wrap. “Honey mustard on the side,” he tells her, and she smiles when she realizes she forgot that detail in her order. 

“EJ offered to run the stage crew again this year,” Nini informs him.

“Figured it would be a good idea to get the basketball team involved in the school community, you know? We’re all in this together after all.” 

“Awesome.” Ricky’s smile is easy and sincere, and EJ wonders if they turned a corner without him realizing it. Maybe Ricky’s just trying extra hard, too. “Looks like we’re getting the gang back together.” 

Nini glances at the music teacher quizzically.

“Seb’s doing choreography,” he explains. “Ashlyn volunteered to do sets. Gina offered to have the robotics club run the tech.” He turns to EJ, “And now we’ve got our stage crew director.” He undoes the flaps of his takeout box while Nini delicately drizzles honey mustard into her wrap, leaving the plastic cup three-quarters full. “Sweet potato fry?” he offers, holding one out to EJ. 

“No thanks,” the PE teacher declines, hands working their way into his pockets. The entire interaction went better than he expected, and he wonders if he might have stumbled into some sort of weird parallel universe. “I actually...have some stuff to do. But let me know when you want me to field a stage crew!” 

Ricky nods, shooting EJ a thumbs up - the most thanks he can offer with his mouth full. Nini dabs at her lips with a napkin and murmurs a ‘thank you.’ EJ shakes himself off as he leaves the room. 

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Nini asks when she’s sure he’s gone.

“Why not?” he shrugs. Maybe it’s the weather, or the fact that he managed to track down a trumpet for Devin, or Ashlyn’s pep talk earlier, or the overall excitement of the musical coming together in his mind. Maybe it’s all of these things. Maybe it’s the way Nini looks: chewing thoughtfully on a piece of arugula she plucked from the carton, lit up by the sunlight that streams through the window. Whatever it is, he believes. If EJ came through for them last year, why wouldn’t he come through this year? Besides, now more than ever after their brief conversation in the hallway, he feels like they’ve got common ground. Or at least shared grievances. He leans toward Nini to tell her this while he uses his napkin to swipe away a drop of honey mustard clinging to the corner of her mouth.

* * *

Much to Gina’s surprise, the cafeteria is crowded when she walks in precisely at 3:00. She scans the assembled students, spotting many familiar faces from last year’s robotics team. Some have brought friends. Her smile widens when she notices Annie, sitting at the end of one of the tables, face buried in her phone. 

Gina grabs the microphone off the stand at the front of the room and taps it three times, checking the audio level. “Can everyone hear me?” 

The sound of rustling echoes throughout the room as students scramble to put away their phones or drop textbooks into their backpacks. The turnout is already better than last year’s by at least a dozen, and she can’t help the wide grin that spreads across her face as she takes in every face.  _ This _ is what her club was meant to be. 

“Alright, everyone, there’s a sign-up sheet going around. I’m gonna get started with -” She’s interrupted by the sound of the cafeteria doors opening and thudding shut, and when she turns around, she’s taken aback to find Mr. Mazzara standing in the doorway, arms folded.

The man’s lips twitch, a faint smile taking shape beneath his mustache. “Please. Don’t let me interrupt. I just came to see the potential recruits.” 

“Right,” Gina says, clearing her throat and hoping the slight shaking in her hands isn’t noticeable. “As I was saying, today is an interest meeting for the robotics club. Meeting dates will be announced next week. I really hope that you’ll all join us. I see a lot of returning members here, and I’m going to invite a few up to share their favorite robotics club experiences from last year…” 

By the time the interest meeting ends, the sign-in sheet is filled. Students have scribbled their names in the margins and on the back, leaving their email addresses to request information about meetings. Her heart swells with excitement.

“I have to hand it to you, Ms. Porter,” Mr. Mazzara says, “That was quite the turnout. Don’t think I’ve ever seen quite so many students interested in robotics.” 

“Thank you,” she says, her smile growing wider to the point that it almost starts to hurt. 

“You remind me a lot of myself when I first began my career,” he continues. “Ambitious, a self-starter, and devoted to the pursuit of science in academia.”

Gina’s smile falters. She’s aware it’s a compliment, and at any other time, she would have reveled in such lavish praise. But all she can think of is Seb’s expression when he recounted what Mazzara had told him. All she can see is Ricky’s face, trying not to show how devastated he was at the loss of his budget. The idea hits her that she may be able to subtly throw in a good word for the embattled dance and music teachers.

“Did I mention that the robotics club participates in community service activities, too?” she says. 

“Excellent,” he says. “Always a good idea to have our students give back. What do you have in mind this year?” 

“Well, for starters, I thought we’d help out the drama club with the musical. We did the lighting and sound for them last year, and Mr. Bowen and Ms. Salazar-Roberts already said they’d be glad to have us do it again. They’re big supporters of our program and it’s a great opportunity for the students to practice wiring.” 

The superintendent purses his lips. “I see. Well, I like the idea of serving the school community. Unfortunately, you may have to find another club to support.” 

“Why’s that?” she asks, an uneasy feeling settling over her. 

“Unfortunately, we were denied a major grant we applied for, which means we’ll need to trim costs elsewhere to cover expenses. Among the items I’ve had to eliminate from the budget is funding for several extracurriculars, the drama club among them.”

“What?” Gina’s face drops along with her heart. “Since when?” 

The superintendent sighs, his expression regretful. “The denial came through a few hours ago. I’ve instructed Principal Gutierrez to notify the affected faculty members. I imagine he’s in the process of doing so now. It’s far from the ideal choice, but I’m afraid there’s little else we can do. I like the idea of community service, though. I’m sure there are plenty of other clubs that could use the robotics team’s support.” 

Gina nods vigorously. “Understood. Thank you for coming, Mr. Mazzara, but I just realized I’m late for an appointment. Excuse me, please.” She races from the cafeteria and makes her way down the hallway as quickly as she dares, her heels clicking a staccato in 4/4 time that echoes all around her. She glances at her watch. 3:28. Ricky said their meeting with Gutierrez was at 3:30. She has to find him or Nini or  _ someone _ and hope that it’s not too late. 

She bursts breathlessly into the main office just in time to see Nini step into Gutierrez’s office, Ricky close behind. His voice is bright and cheerful as he greets the principal. Gutierrez shuts the door and a grim silence follows. Their voices are hushed, though at points she can hear Ricky’s voice murmuring indignantly. Her stomach feels like she’s swallowed stones. She takes a seat outside.

The door opens fifteen minutes later and Gina jumps to her feet. The look on Nini’s face when she emerges tells her everything. Her lips are pursed, her expression tight. Her gaze doesn’t leave the floor. Ricky follows. His eyes are hollow, but the set of his lips makes him look like he’ll start to cry any minute. 

“Hey,” she says, so soft she’s not sure they hear her. She instinctively touches Nini’s elbow. “I heard... I tried to get here in time to warn you…” Her eyes dart back and forth between the two of them, urging them to understand.  _ I’m on your side. I swear _ . “D-do you want to talk about it?” 

“No. Thanks,” Nini’s voice comes out strangled, and Ricky instinctively wraps an arm around her waist, squeezing her against his side. He does his best to offer Gina a wan smile, but the glassiness in his eyes threatens to spill over.

Gina watches the couple leave. She’s seen this look far too many times. It’s the look she saw on countless faces every time her mother deployed to a disaster zone: the look of people who have lost something irreplaceable. She wants to scream and yell and throw something.  _ It’s not fair _ . It’s not fair that she’s trying to do everything right. It’s not fair that she’s found friends, and that she’s trying to support them, only for someone else to swoop in and undo it all. It’s not fair that Ricky and Nini won’t get to stage a show free of her interference. It’s not fair that Ashlyn can’t try out her Atlantis-themed sets, or that Seb can’t choreograph a  _ Little Mermaid  _ dance number like he dreamed of doing, or that EJ can’t prove himself to be a better friend. 

This was supposed to be their year.  _ All  _ of them. This was the year things were supposed to be better. This was the year she was supposed to start feeling like she was home. This was the year she was supposed to make up for everything, once and for all. Doesn’t the universe owe her that chance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I was going to let Ricky and Nini and Gina and EJ and everyone else off this easy, did you? The drama inevitably has to spill over. I would definitely appreciate your notes on what worked, what didn't, etc. 
> 
> I've been feeling pretty down today. A lot of you that I talk to know I'm a teacher. Today my state announced schools will be closed for the rest of the school year. I get why it has to be this way, but I already miss my kids a LOT and knowing I won't get to see them in-person again this year is breaking my heart in ways I can't fully process. That said, writing has been such a huge distraction and outlet for me today. If anyone else is feeling similarly down, please I urge you to reach out to me to chat. My tumblr is ebi_pers and I'm happy to drop my Twitter and Instagrams too, if you want. I use those as personal accounts, so I'm not terribly involved in fandom on there but I'm always happy to talk. Stay safe and I love you all!
> 
> PS - chapter title is from The Little Mermaid but ya'll already knew that!


	7. Don't Rain On My Parade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another update! I'm having so much fun writing this story and hearing your thoughts on it. Seriously, I can't tell you how much your kudos, comments, and support mean to me, especially knowing now that I won't be able to return to work this school year. Writing this story has been helping me get through.
> 
> Last chapter left Ricky and Nini (and Gina) in a bind. This chapter... Well, they're still in a bind but at least it's not all bad. The title for this one is "Don't Rain On My Parade," which is a Broadway CLASSIC. Where's it from? Check the notes at the end to find out!

Ricky doesn’t turn on the radio when they get in the car. He glances over at Nini to make sure her seatbelt is on, then puts the car in reverse. As they pull away from the school, the only sound in the cabin is the reverberating road noise and the sound of wind buffeting the windshield as the speedometer inches past sixty. She considers putting the air conditioning on, but it somehow seems wrong. The silence feels like the only thing that’s keeping them together. He wants to cry. She can see it on his face: the droop of his mouth, so far from the adorable pout he gives her when he’s trying to be persuasive, the glassiness in his brown eyes that makes them look more like mirrors. She wants to cry, too. Her throat burns and the backs of her eyes sting. He’s trying to be strong for her, and she’s trying to be strong for him, and if a single sound violates the wordless cocoon they’ve shrouded themselves in, she’s certain they’ll break. So she sits back in her seat, fiddling with the hem of her blouse as she catches her bottom lip between her teeth and worries it so hard that she starts to bleed. 

Ricky throws the car in park outside the condo and lets out a sigh. When he speaks, his voice is thick with unshed tears. “I, uh, I think I’m gonna go back to my place tonight,” he says. 

“Oh,” Nini answers, her heart sinking. All she wants is to go inside, lie down on the couch, and pretend that the events of the day never happened. She wants Ricky to wrap her tightly in his arms. She wants to feel the rise and fall of his breathing against her back, reminding her to breathe with him. But she understands. Ricky processes things best on his own, where he’s safe to pluck away at his guitar into the early hours of the morning without risk of waking anyone else up. Big Red’s white noise machine could drown out an air raid. “Do you want to come inside? Get a few things?” 

“No,” he breathes. “It’s okay. I can last one night.” When she turns to look at him, there is the barest trace of a reassuring smile on his face. It’s the most he can muster, but it floods her veins with relief. He’s not taking his things with him. It’s a promise that he’s coming back. 

She nods and leans over the center console to press a kiss to his lips. She feels him soften the moment their lips make contact, and then he’s leaning into her. The kiss turns needy, full of every emotion that neither of them can express. She resists the urge to tell him that it will all be okay when she pulls back, because she knows that it won’t be. They’ll recover. They’ll find new ways to occupy their time. And this won’t break them - individually or together. But she knows deep down that it won’t be okay for a while. 

“Call me if you need anything,” she says finally, fingers closing over the door handle and giving a sharp tug. 

“You too,” he murmurs, and she catches the faintest twitch in his expression, a brief crack in the facade. She won’t call to cry to him, and she knows he won’t call to cry to her either. They can be each other’s rock, or anchor, or buoy, but it’s different when the pain is shared. At the same time, she knows that if he doesn’t call her to check on her before they go to bed, she’ll call him. Wordlessly, she slips out of Ricky’s car and gives him a reassuring nod, a silent promise that she’ll be there on the other side of this. He nods in return.

The condo feels uncharacteristically empty, and chillingly silent. Nini slips off her shoes and ditches her purse by the door. It slumps over, but she doesn’t bother to right it. Sunlight filters in through the slats in the blinds. She twists the chord a few times to snap them shut and then flops onto the couch. The cushions still carry the lingering scent of Ricky’s presence: the cool smokiness of his shower gel and the metallic smell of his aftershave. She hugs the pillow tighter to her body.

* * *

Just after six, Nini hears the familiar chirp of Kourtney’s car alarm and debates going next door. Kourtney’s condo is soft and plush, full of rounded edges and pink and white accents, draped in fabrics and scented with vanilla. It will feel infinitely warmer than her own condo. She sits up, then reconsiders. Her best friend’s days are long, especially lately. Problems are the last thing she needs right now. 

The key in the lock makes Nini perk up. For a moment, she wonders if Ricky changed his mind about staying at his place for the night. The door opens and Kourtney stands, backlit by the golden rays of the just-setting sun. 

“Neens, I gotta tell you…” she trails off when she notices how uncharacteristically dark the place is. “Girl, why aren’t your lights on? Where are you?” She fumbles along the wall until she comes to the lightswitch and snaps it on. The living room is flooded with yellow light and Nini squints against it, her hair wiry and standing on end. Kourtney pries off her wedges and tosses them in a heap by the door. “Nini, are you okay?” she asks. 

“Yeah. I was just taking a nap.” She stretches and forces a yawn to cover up the lie. Kourtney’s bullshit detector is uncannily well-attuned and besides, Nini’s never been a napper. But if her best friend catches her deception, she doesn’t let on. “What’s up?” she changes the subject as Kourtney flops belly-down on the shaggy white ottoman and blows out a breath, one tightly-wound curl bouncing with the momentary breeze.

“I’ve had the day from hell,” she groans.

_ That makes two of us _ , Nini thinks, but she’s grateful for the chance to throw herself into someone else’s problems for a little while. At the very least, it’ll distract her from the things she can’t solve in her own life. She reaches out and rubs Kourtney’s shoulder. “Tell me,” she urges. 

“Well, you know how I had my line debuting in New York, right?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Her heart skips a beat. The fashion show in New York was going to be huge, with her best friend’s line front-and-center. Kourtney had been preparing for it since mid-July, when she first learned she’d been selected to participate. 

“It's been postponed. Indefinitely,” Kourtney sighs. 

“What? Why?”

“Supplier issues. There was a flood at the factory. Production’s been delayed at least six weeks.” 

“Oh, Kourt,” Nini murmurs sympathetically, sliding off the couch to sit beside her best friend. “That sucks.” 

“You can say that again,” Kourtney says, using one finger to trace a circular pattern in the throw rug, her manicured nail parting the long fibers. 

“Can’t you find another supplier?” Nini suggests brightly. “Maybe someone that can get a few pieces out in time for the debut?” 

“I tried,” Kourtney answers ruefully. “But do you know how hard it is to find ethical suppliers in this industry? Anyone who can get the work done in time is shady. Like  _ really  _ shady. I’m talking environmental pollution, not paying a living wage, exploiting child labor… Seriously messed up stuff. I’d rather delay the show than do business with someone like that.”

Nini has always admired Kourtney’s unwavering dedication to her principles, as much as she’s always wished she could imitate her. From her fashion label’s inception, Kourtney worked hard to ensure that her company’s values matched her own. She remembers her calling one night in the throes of their senior year of college, indignant when a professor told her that her sustainable business plan wouldn’t turn a profit. She’d insisted that she would prove him wrong.

Nini reaches out, resting her hand on her best friend’s back soothingly. “I’m proud of you, Kourt,” she says. 

Kourtney smiles in return. “Yours is the only validation I need,” she says, leaning her head against Nini’s shoulder. She holds it there as Nini runs her hand comfortingly through her curls. It’s a familiar motion, one that they’ve repeated over and over since childhood. A gentle hand on the shoulder, the soft, soothing comb of fingers through hair. Every time Nini got a low test grade. Every time Kourtney got into a disagreement with a classmate. Every heartbreak. Every off-color remark from a boy. Every leering comment about Kourtney’s hair or curves, about Nini’s mothers. 

“How are you doing?” Kourtney asks, rolling partially onto her side to face Nini.

“Not great,” the teacher confesses.

“Yeah, the nap was the first sign.” 

Nini sighs. “So remember I told you we have a new superintendent?” Kourtney nods and she continues. “His big plan for the year was to expand our STEM programs. Well it turns out, we didn’t get the grants he was counting on, so he had to cut a bunch of programs. Including…” 

“No…” Kourtney interrupts, eyes wide. 

“Yep.” Nini purses her lips, swallowing the familiar burning sensation in the back of her throat that comes on whenever she’s ready to cry. 

“Neens…” 

“Ricky and I just set the audition dates, too,” she says. “We got everyone back on board and everything. Ashlyn was going to do the sets, Seb was going to do the choreography. Even Gina and EJ were going to help. And then at the end of the day… Mazzara didn’t even have the decency to tell us himself. Principal Gutierrez had to do it.” 

Kourtney sits up on the ottoman and shakes her head. “Uh-uh, Nini. This doesn’t sit right with me. First rule of business: don’t count on funds unless they’re already sitting in your bank account. How is it your problem if he didn’t get his grants? He shouldn’t have been spending money he didn’t have.” 

Nini shrugs helplessly. 

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna do something,” Kourtney declares, dark eyes fiery. “I’m gonna write a strongly-worded letter.”

“I don’t know if that’s gonna help much,” Nini says, a slight smile tugging at her lips because it’s so quintessentially Kourtney. Her best friend has never been one to sit still and let injustice play out. 

“I’m on the alumni committee, Neens,” she points out. “They gotta listen to me.” 

“Something tells me Mr. Mazzara isn’t the type to care about the alumni committee.”

“Then I’ll show up at his office! He can’t ignore me if I’m right up in his face. As a taxpaying member of this community, I find it shameful that students are being robbed of the opportunity to participate in the arts…”

“He’ll just kick you out,” Nini sighs. “Face it, Kourt. He’s too powerful.” 

“You haven’t even tried,” Kourtney protests.

“What is there to try? Nothing you or I or anyone says is going to change his mind. Principal Gutierrez said that we’ll most likely be able to have a show next year. He’s going to try to get it into the budget.” 

Kourtney shakes her head. “He’s going to  _ try _ ? So there’s a chance there won’t be a show next year either? Nini, that’s messed up. What about everything you worked for last year? How’s this any different?”

For a moment, Nini considers her point. The previous year was different for so many reasons. The previous year’s difficulties had been brought on by her coworkers, people without any more inherent power than her. Besides, the previous year was full of its own personal struggles. And while the drama surrounding the musical had inevitably intersected with those struggles, it had seemed so secondary by comparison. 

“It’s different, Kourt,” she says. “Mazzara gets the final say on how the money gets used.”

Kourtney tuts, but her hand immediately comes to rest between Nini’s shoulders, rubbing a circular pattern over her gray blouse. “You know I support you one hundred percent,” she says. “But you also know that I’m gonna give it to you straight. And right now? I think you’re being a little passive. I’m not saying to start a riot or anything. But I think at least an email or two pleading your case might help.”

Nini grunts noncommittally. Part of her wants to believe Kourtney. After all, her best friend has never been afraid to speak her mind and it’s seemed to work for her. But still. Kourtney is an unstoppable force. She’s never met an immovable object like Benjamin Mazzara.

* * *

Ricky Bowen is a perpetual motion machine. There’s no better way Big Red can think of to describe his best friend. Ricky is quick with a smile and the first to volunteer to do something reckless. He’s headstrong, sometimes to a fault, and like a shark, he’s always moving forward. In their six years of friendship, Big Red’s rarely seen Ricky stop. Once when he had the flu sophomore year, forcing Big Red to stay at Kaden’s for the week to avoid catching it. Once, briefly, when he’d discovered an error on his transcripts that threatened to delay his graduation. Once when he momentarily doubted himself before heading off to teach in the Philippines for a year. 

Perpetual motion machines are supposed to keep moving indefinitely. So when Big Red makes his way up the stairs to the apartment at seven o’clock and finds Ricky passed out on the couch in his work clothes, he knows something is very wrong. 

“Oh no,” he groans before he’s even shut the door. Ricky stirs on the couch. “Dude,” Big Red approaches cautiously. “Dude, are you alright?” 

“No,” Ricky groans, screwing his eyes up as he rises to a sitting position. His hair lies at impossible angles, wayward curls jutting up haphazardly. There is a clear line across the right side of his face where it had been resting against the seam of the sofa arm and his light gray button-down is hopelessly crushed on one side. 

“Don’t tell me…” Big Red eases himself down on the couch, gingerly avoiding Ricky’s socked feet. “You and Nini?” 

“What?” Ricky’s eyes snap open. “What happened to Nini?” 

“No, nothing!” the redhead flails. “Nothing happened to Nini! I was just worried. Based on how you were acting, I thought maybe you guys had…” 

“No,” Ricky let out an audible breath of relief. “No, Nini and I are good. I mean, we’re good with each other.” 

“Then what happened?”

“The musical, Red,” Ricky sighs. 

His roommate narrows his eyes. “How much ad space am I gonna have to buy this year? Because I’ll buy out the whole damn playbill if I have to. You’ll need to insert ads between every actor bio…” 

Ricky can’t stop the laugh that escapes his lips, though it’s tinged with a slight bitterness. “I appreciate it, but I don’t think ad space is gonna help this time. There’s not going to be a show this year.”

“What? Why?” 

“Mazzara,” Ricky mutters the word like an oath. 

“Like the cheese?” 

“No,  _ Mazzara _ . The superintendent. You know how he ‘reallocated’ my budget for the music program?” Big Red nods, and Ricky presses on. “Yeah, well now he’s ‘reallocating’ the budget for the musical, too.” 

“What? He can’t do that!” Big Red protests, leaping up from the couch in indignation.

“Actually, he can.” 

“I mean, maybe he has the  _ authority  _ but that doesn’t give him the right,” Red counters. 

Ricky bites back the urge to tell him that, technically, having one of those things grants Mazzara the other. Instead, he just shrugs helplessly.

“No way, dude. You can’t just shrug this one off. He just cancelled your show. You gotta fight back!” 

“Dude,” Ricky smirks, “This isn’t a movie.” Nonetheless, his mind is already spinning into motion, considering his options. 

“I’m serious, Ricky! If you just sit and take it, you’re basically letting this guy come into your house, steal all your money, and then evict you for good measure. So what are you gonna do about it?”

Ricky fixes his eyes on the coffee table, watching as the rapidly-setting sun reflects off the glass inlay, fanning rainbows across the floor. He’d been thinking about it on the drive home, and after he’d settled on the couch. But every solution he came up with seemed to end in Mazzara saying no or losing his job. Or both. “I don’t know yet,” he says pensively. 

“But you  _ are  _ gonna do something, right?”

“Yes,” Ricky says, his voice grim and weighted with determination. “I know. I just don’t know what.” 

Big Red claps him on the back and offers an amiable smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re not wallowing in it this time. Remember last year? I had to talk you out of not giving up. And look what happened? You got all the underdogs together and you pulled it off anyway.”

Ricky’s eyes light up and he turns to his best friend, enveloping him in an elated hug. “Dude, you're a genius!” 

“I am?” the redhead questions, returning the hug.

“Yes! You just said it! Last year, we got the underdogs together and we pulled it off. So if we’re gonna fix it this year...”

Big Red smiles knowingly, nodding his head as he follows Ricky’s logic. “Oh,” he says. “I get it now.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before! Nini and I can’t solve this on our own, but maybe with everyone else’s help, we can.” 

“We’re all in this together,” Red concurs. “Let me know how this underdog can help.”

* * *

Ricky calls just before nine, just as Nini predicted. They may be sleeping apart, but neither could possibly sleep well without hearing each other’s voice before going to bed. 

“Hey,” Nini chirps the second she answers, but in a breath she lets the pretense drop. There’s no use in faking cheerful with Ricky. Not when he already knows how upset she is and why. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay tonight,” he murmurs by way of greeting.

“Don’t be sorry,” she answers. “I get it.” 

“But I’m kinda glad I went back to my place,” he continues. “Big Red just gave me the best idea.” 

“What is it?” 

“We need to call a meeting. You, me, and everyone else involved in the musical. So Seb, Ashlyn…” 

“EJ and Gina?” she fills in the rest.

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, and then what? What are we meeting about?” Nini questions.

Ricky falters for a minute. “Well… It was mostly just that, you know? A meeting to figure out what to do next.” 

Nini stifles a sigh. She loves Ricky. She loves Big Red. But neither of them have ever been terribly good at thinking plans through all the way, as evidenced by every story she’s ever heard about either of them and their college escapades. 

“C’mon, Nini,” Ricky implores. “Six heads are better than one. Someone’s bound to think of something, right?” 

She ponders it a moment, and she has to admit that Ricky might have a point. If anything can be done, they stand a better chance if they put their heads together. Gina already knows, anyway. And if nothing else, she’s tired of keeping the suffering confined to the two of them. “Okay,” she acquiesces. “What time?” 

“Before school in the parking lot,” Ricky says. “I wanna have a chance to talk before all the other teachers start getting there.” 

“I’ll be there,” Nini agrees.

* * *

Gina finishes flossing and tosses the waxy string into the garbage can beside the sink. She glances in the mirror one last time before shutting off the bathroom light and padding across her studio to the low bed butting up against the window. Her phone vibrates on the nightstand just as she pulls up the black sheets to crawl inside. She snatches the device up and frowns. A group message from Ricky.

_ Hey. Important meeting about the musical before school. 7 AM in the parking lot. We’ll explain when you get there.  _

She can’t help the slight smirk that spreads across her lips. They have a plan. Of course they have a plan. Ricky and Nini always came up with a plan to thwart her last year, and at every turn she’d secretly envied their ability to pull off a hat trick each time. A bit of pride swells within her when she realizes she’s being included in the scheming this time. She checks who else has been included in the thread. Seb, Ashlyn, Nini, and EJ. 

She’s the first to respond.  _ Count me in. _

Ricky likes the message and Gina drops the phone back onto its charging pad before shutting off the lamp, the smile still playing at her lips. She falls asleep thinking of ways to foil Mazzara's plans.

* * *

Ricky has the trunk open and he’s sitting on the bumper of his car when Nini’s bright blue Focus pulls into the parking lot. Theirs are the only two cars there. When she gets out, he can tell she hasn’t slept. Her eyes are sunken into her face, rimmed in red. He’s certain he doesn’t look much better, though he barely hazarded a glance in the mirror while getting ready this morning. He folds her into his arms the minute she approaches, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs. 

“I missed you, too,” she says, her arms encircling his waist. He rocks her side to side for a moment before pulling her up onto the bumper to join him. 

“We’re gonna figure this out,” he says, swallowing the doubt that surfaces with his words. He can’t bring himself to promise Nini. 

Seb is the first to arrive, his green pickup clattering to a halt with Ashlyn’s white RAV4 close behind. She emerges with her red hair still damp and pulled back in a loose braid. EJ and Gina arrive shortly after. 

“Early morning rendezvous in a parking lot,” Seb arches his brow, his expression tight. “This can’t be good.” He considers the styrofoam coffee cup in his hand, then tilts it back, draining it in a single swig. 

“Lay it on us,” Ashlyn sighs.

Ricky purses his lips and glances around the circle of friends. Gina casts her gaze downward, nudging a pebble back and forth with the toe of her boot. “Well, you guys have probably guessed by now that the reason we’re all here has to do with the musical. Nini and I were supposed to meet with Principal Gutierrez yesterday to confirm the audition date.”

“And then he told us that the show was cancelled,” Nini finishes. 

“What?” EJ blurts. “Cancelled? Why?” 

Ricky nods grimly. “Same reason my instrument budget got taken away. Or why you didn’t get your uniforms,” he says. 

“Budget,” Nini mutters. 

Ashlyn looks around the group, her expression measured and neutral. “So what now?” she asks, pitching the question to everyone assembled. 

“That’s what we wanted to ask you guys,” Ricky says. “Because we can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“Well what can we do?” EJ questions. “Seems pretty clear that Mazzara can take what he wants.” 

“There’s gotta be a line somewhere,” Seb puts in. “I mean, he already took your uniforms, and he already took Ricky’s instruments. What’s next? My ballet barres?” He looks at Ashlyn and Gina. “Your textbooks and calculators?” 

“I was thinking,” Ricky turns to Nini. “Maybe we can stage a show with the stuff we have onhand? I was going through our inventory in my head last night. We’ve got years’ worth of costumes and a bunch of old sets. We probably can’t do  _ The Little Mermaid  _ but maybe we can do something else?” 

Nini shakes her head. “But where would we put on the show? We can’t use the auditorium without authorization…” 

“Then use the gym,” EJ offers brightly. “It could totally work! We’ll pull out the bleachers on one side for the audience and set up the stage on the other side!” 

Ashlyn offers her cousin a wan smile. “Good idea, except that we’d still need authorization to use the gym.” 

"Okay, fine," EJ says. "Then we can stage the show somewhere else. Mazzara can't tell us what to do off school property."

His cousin shakes her head sadly. "I don't know if that would work, either. Think about it. We'd need to find a space big enough to stage the show, and we'd have to rent it out basically every day for a month at least for rehearsals. And that's not even counting all the money it'll cost for tech since we can't use the school equipment." 

EJ tosses his arms up. "Well, I'm outta ideas. Someone else go."

“What if we turned to local sponsors?” Seb offers. “If Mazzara’s whole deal is budget, maybe we can convince him to let us do a show if it won’t cost him anything.” 

“Great idea!” Gina replies. “I can totally help with that.” 

"I don' t know," Nini murmurs. "We barely raised enough money last year, and that was with the school giving us some budget. It's really expensive to put on a show."

Gina nods pensively. “You're right."

Nini lets out a shaky sigh, her eyes welling up. “Face it. I just don’t see how we can make this work unless we somehow convince Mazzara to change his mind.” 

“Good luck,” EJ snorts. “I already tried that. The man’s immune to all charm.” 

Ashlyn sends him a playful smirk. “Maybe he’s just immune to  _ your  _ charm.”

“You’re welcome to try,” EJ counters. 

“Guys, we can’t give up,” Ricky calls their attention back. “I know it seems hopeless right now, but we’re just brainstorming.” 

They look up as a teal hatchback inches its way into the lot and the librarian emerges, offering a friendly wave before heading toward the main doors.

“Something tells me our meeting’s just about over,” Gina notes. 

Ricky agrees. “Can we all agree to keep thinking about it?” he asks. “Think about how great the musical was last year. Not just for us, but for all the kids, too. We can’t just let Mazzara walk in here and take that all away. And we can’t do this alone. Are you in?”

“I’m in,” EJ says.

“Me too,” Seb agrees.

“Count me in, too,” Gina says.

Ashlyn smiles at the group. “I’m not giving up on those Atlantis-themed sets.” 

Their eyes fall to Nini, sitting in the tailgate of Ricky’s SUV and swinging her legs back and forth. She looks up from the ground and for a moment, Ricky worries she might say no. She’d very nearly walked out last year, and this year the odds seem stacked even higher against them. If she’s out, he decides, then so is he.

“I know some of us started on rocky ground last year,” she says, carefully avoiding Gina’s gaze. “And some of us ended on rocky ground. But it doesn’t change the fact that you all helped make last year one of the best ever for me. And you’re all here now, fighting for something that is really mine and Ricky’s responsibility. How can I not be in?” 

Ricky’s grin is radiant, his sigh of relief louder than intended. “We’re gonna figure this out, you guys. One way or another.” He puts his hand in the center of the circle. “Underdogs on three?” 

Nini places her hand on top of his, and in moments the entire group has joined. Ricky counts them off. “One, two, three.”

“Underdogs!” 

He’s pretty sure that their coworkers emerging from their cars around the parking lot must think they’re insane, but he’s just as sure that it doesn’t matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Return of the Underdogs! Of course, things need to get much worse before they can get better, so the next few chapters aren't gonna be all smiles and sunshine for our faves. But I'm also a believer in happy endings so I also promise not to hurt them too much without a way out. 
> 
> ALSO - Teaser! I have another oneshot coming. It's about half-written now and I can't wait to share it with you all. 
> 
> ALSO ALSO - If you wanna connect, my Tumblr is ebi_pers and I'd love to chat with any and all of ya'll about literally anything. 
> 
> ALSO ALSO ALSO - Title is from "Funny Girl" of course! That's all I've got for now. Stay safe out there, ya'll!


	8. Mama Who Bore Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get into this chapter, a few things. First, I want you to know that this chapter hurt to write and it will probably hurt a little to read. Ricky and Nini are both about to deal with a very difficult situation, so get ready for some seriously heavy emotions ahead. I hesitated with what direction to take this story, and this went through multiple edits and rewrites. I'm finally happy with the direction that I've settled on, and I hope you'll trust me enough to repair the damage I'm causing in these characters' lives. I guess what I'm saying is "trust the process." I would like to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Secondly, the title is once again a musical reference. "Mama Who Bore Me" seemed fitting for this chapter. I encourage you to give it a listen if you don't already know it, and check the notes at the end to see where it's from.

“So when we talk about  _ The Crucible _ , it’s important to understand the way the puritans lived,” Nini says, gesturing to the painting projected onto the board. A dour group of men and women in washed-out tones, standing amid a barren field of snow. “What do you notice?” she questions. 

Mariela’s hand shoots up. “They’re basically all dressed the same.” 

“Exactly,” Nini nods. “Look at the colors. They’re all dull. What might that tell you about what they viewed as important? Rynn?”

“We learned all about this in Ms. Caswell’s class last year,” she says. “Though  _ some  _ of us might not have been paying attention,” she casts a teasing glance at Noah, whose eyelids sag lower with each passing second. He sits up straighter when he notices the eyes falling on him. “The puritans believed in a strict, simple life of hard work and religion. There wasn’t time for anything like beauty or vanity,” Rynn offers.

“Great!” Nini responds, briefly glancing at the clock to note the three remaining minutes of class. “It’s absolutely true that the puritans did not believe in things like self-expression through fashion, art, or really anything.” 

“Sounds dull,” Noah sniffs. 

“By our standards, definitely,” Nini agrees. “But that was the way of life back then. And what’s interesting about it - and what you can kind of tell from this picture - is that very few people ever broke with this lifestyle. The vast majority of puritans bought into this idea that everything should be the same. So for tonight, what I’d like you to think about is this. Why might people follow along with an idea? Why might the puritans, for example, have been willing to sacrifice their self-expression? What would be the benefits, and what might be the dangers?” She is interrupted by the shrill bell signalling the changing of classes. “Have a great day everyone!” 

She turns and begins erasing the board as the students file out of the room, merging into the mass in the hall. 

“Ms. Salazar-Roberts?” Mariela approaches, precariously balancing a science textbook and two binders in her arms. “Any word about auditions for the musical? I wanna make sure I have it on my calendar so I don’t miss it.” 

Nini’s face wavers a moment before settling into a wan smile. “Actually, Mariela,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “Mr. Bowen and I are trying to figure something out so that we can have auditions.” 

“What do you mean ‘figure something out?’” Mariela frowns. “What’s there to figure out? Auditions are always around this time.” 

Nini sighs. “I know. But unfortunately there’s been a change of plans…” 

“What sort of change?” Mariela questions. “Like a change in show?” 

The English teacher chews her lip for a moment before responding. “Mariela, unfortunately it seems like there’s been a funding issue for the drama club this year. So as of right now, we don’t have the budget to do a musical. But Mr. Bowen and I, and the rest of the teachers involved with the drama club, are trying to figure out a way we can still have a show.” 

Mariela’s dark eyes turn glassy, her jaw set and her upper lip quivering. “So as of right now, there’s no musical at  _ all  _ this year?” she asks.

Nini purses her lips and nods, fighting back the urge to cry as well. She’s never been good at keeping her composure when others cry around her, and it’s particularly difficult when it’s one of her own students doing the crying. “It wasn’t my choice, nor was it Mr. Bowen’s. Unfortunately the decision was made from higher up.”

“But it’s not fair,” Mariela says, so softly Nini isn’t sure she’s heard correctly at all. “Th-This... This was supposed to be our year.” She glances at the doorway, and Nini catches sight of Rynn and Noah lingering outside. “This was our last chance to be in a show before college.” 

For a moment, Nini feels like the wind has been squeezed out of her lungs. When senior year started, it hadn’t felt any different to her. Her last show on East High’s stage had felt more or less the same as all the others. She was an understudy. A member of the ensemble. It hadn’t really occurred to her that for last year’s understudies-turned-leads, the experience of a final show could be very different.

“Who made the decision to cancel the show?” Mariela asks, her eyes flashing.

“It wasn’t really one person…” Nini starts.

“Ms. Salazar-Roberts, please. If they’re going to take this away from us, shouldn’t we at least know who to talk to? Was it Principal Gutierrez?” 

“No, Mariela…” 

“The superintendent?” 

Nini falls silent, her face betraying the truth. Mariela lets out a puff of breath. “I have to do something.” Her eyes stray toward Rynn and Noah, standing silently by the door, their faces shell-shocked. “ _ We  _ have to do something,” she says.

“Look, Mariela,” Nini begins gently. “I understand how upsetting this is. Believe me, we’re just as upset as you are. But I think you should be careful. This is your senior year. Maybe causing a stir isn’t the best idea?” 

Mariela’s eyes search the floor tiles, as if they might hold the answers she’s looking for. “If there’s no musical this year,” she says, shaking her head slowly, “then senior year doesn’t really matter to me.” 

* * *

Ricky finishes showing Devin how to properly pack his trumpet into its case. “The important thing is to make sure that it fits snugly. You don’t want it to shift around too much or you might damage it.” 

Devin admires the gleaming brass instrument. “Thanks, Mr. Bowen,” he says, shutting the case and securing its latches, double-checking to make sure they're fastened correctly. 

The music room door swings open on its hinges and thuds shut as Mariela stalks into the room, her face set with determination. “Mr. Bowen, we have to do something,” she declares.

Ricky rises from his squatting position beside Devin’s instrument case and dusts his hands off, a half-amused, half-confused smirk tracing across his face. “What do we have to do?” 

“Something. Anything!” Mariela paces aimlessly between the rows of chairs, wringing her hands. “Ms. Salazar-Roberts told me there’s no musical this year.”

“Wait, what?” Devin turns to the music teacher in confusion.

Ricky sighs. “It’s true,” he confirms. “They told us yesterday that the musical has to be cancelled this year. We’re working on a solution.” 

“Well so am I,” Mariela declares. “We can’t just sit here and let them take this show from us. The superintendent needs to know that the drama club matters to the students of East High!” 

Ricky folds his arms and arches one brow. He scarcely recognizes the senior that stands before him now. When Mariela was elevated to the lead part last year, she’d been timid to the point that she was barely audible, even with a microphone. It had taken countless rehearsals - and a meaningful heart-to-heart with Nini - to bring her out of her shell. “Okay, I like your spirit,” he encourages. “What are you thinking of doing?” 

“I don’t know yet,” Mariela concedes, her posture deflating slightly. “But it’ll be big. And we’ll show them that the last thing they wanna do is mess with an army of theater kids.”

“I’ll help,” Devin offers, rising to his feet and looping his hand through the handle of his trumpet case. 

Mariela turns, as if noticing the freshman for the first time. Her face softens into a gentle smile. “Welcome to the army. I’m Mariela…”

“Devin,” the boy smiles. 

“Devin, do you have lunch now?” Mariela questions, and he nods. “Great! I’ve got some friends I want you to meet.” 

Ricky watches as the two leave the music room, a mixture of satisfaction and admiration welling up inside him. It’s an unlikely duo: a former understudy and a plucky freshman who’s barely picked up an instrument. And yet, he finds himself filled with hope. Who better to start a revolution?

* * *

The living room is silent. Nini sits, resting her head against Ricky’s shoulder and toying with the frilly edge of a throw blanket. He watches her out of the corner of his eye. The house is usually a cacophony of noises. The clattering of pans as Nini roots in the too-small, too-dark cabinets for a baking sheet. The drone of the television, playing something neither of them is watching in the background. The twang of a guitar string or the tinkle of keyboard keys. The eclectic Spotify playlist they constructed because neither of them can agree on a single genre of music to play in the house as it switches from Regina Spektor to Rex Orange County to ABBA. Nini’s lilting voice carrying from the bathroom while she showers, or Ricky’s tenor harmonies resonating from the bedroom. The silence feels wrong. It feels oppressive.

He reaches for his guitar and Nini shifts slightly to accommodate the bulk of the instrument now spread across his lap. He begins to pick at the strings. At first, he repeats the chords to the tune he’s been working on. G, D, E minor, C. When he tires of that, he plucks random chords listlessly to fill the dead air. 

He can feel Nini’s mind working overtime. He can tell from the look on her face. The slightly-distant eyes, the way her lower lip instinctively curls inward, though she doesn’t chew on it. He sets the guitar down and snakes his arm around her waist, folding her toward him. She lets out a soft sigh, and the sound causes a pang of pain to shoot through his heart. It’s a fairly new sensation. One he’s still getting used to. Nini is the only person whose sadness causes him physical pain. The first time it happened was the first time he knew he loved her, and every day since has only confirmed it to him.

Nini shifts slightly, laying her head in his lap and bringing her brown eyes to meet his. She can feel her heart rate starting to slow with the softness in his eyes and the gentle curve of his smile. She exhales and feels the tension leave her body. Ricky is the only person who’s ever had this effect on her. He’s the only person who can calm her with a look, who can soothe her with a touch.  _ I should tell him _ , she thinks. And she convinces herself that this time, she really will admit to Ricky how she feels. 

_ I love you. Three words. Not hard.  _

She opens her mouth, but the sudden vibrating from his pocket startles the both of them and she scrambles to a sitting position while he digs in his pocket for his phone. She can tell it’s his mother the second he glances at the screen. The look that passes over his face is at-once sad, angry, accusatory, and remorseful. He glances at her uncertainly. 

“Take it,” she urges. 

He stares at the phone for a few more rings, until she’s certain it’ll go to voicemail before he wills himself to answer. Finally, he wets his lips and taps the screen, holding the phone to his face.

“Mom?” he says. 

Lynne’s voice answers from the other side, loud enough that Nini can hear her crystal clear. “Ricky?” There’s a tremor in her voice, and even though Nini’s only spoken to her once, she can tell something is wrong. 

Ricky frowns. “Yeah?” 

“Honey, do you have a minute? I need to tell you something.” 

Ricky eases himself off the couch, immediately missing the warmth of Nini lying against him. He moves down the hall toward the bedroom. “Yeah. Is everything alright?” 

Lynne lets out a trembling sigh. “Ricky. Sweetheart. Before I say anything else, I just want you to know that nothing’s been confirmed yet, so please don’t be worried.”

Ricky feels his pulse quicken. “Mom?” His voice sounds impossibly small to his own ears, like he’s a child again. “What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.” 

He runs through what little he knows of his family’s medical history. His dad has a slightly elevated blood pressure. His grandmother on his mom’s side was diabetic. Neither of those seem worthy of the gravity in his mom’s tone. His mother isn’t old; she’s only in her fifties. And she’s healthy. He can only remember a single instance in which his mother’s health was called into question. 

When he was in first grade, he came home to find his neighbor waiting at the bus stop. She told him that his mom had to go to the doctor. It seemed so unlike his mother, who hardly ever caught a cold, so he’d requested the special codeword his parents had taught him. The one to verify whether or not he was supposed to go home with this person. She’d repeated the phrase, “Minnie Mouse,” correctly, and that was when he’d gotten nervous. 

When his mom came back a few hours later, she told him that she’d been bleeding and gone to the doctor to get a checkup. She was fine now, she’d assured him. It wasn’t until years later that Ricky had learned the truth. That he was supposed to have a little brother or sister. That his mother had miscarried just shy of three months. She was never able to have another child after that.

“I went to the doctor for a physical today,” Lynne says. “And the doctor found a lump in my breast.” 

The words hang heavily in the space between either end of the line. For a moment, Ricky can only see white. He swallows thickly, and the sound echoes in his ears. He sways on his feet, his head fuzzy. “W-what does that mean?” he manages, though he already knows the answer. 

“Well,” his mother continues, “we aren’t sure yet. But sweetheart… There’s a chance I have cancer.” 

His breath hitches, and he can only utter a defeated, “Oh.” 

“But remember,” Lynne urges quickly. “This is still really early. I’m scheduled for a mammogram next week but I wanted to tell you ahead of time. Just in case… I didn’t want this to blindside you.” 

A million emotions surge within Ricky. Guilt, primarily. Guilt because the last time he’d received shocking news from a parent - when he found out they were getting a divorce - he’d accused them of blindsiding him. And now his mother is trying not to make the same mistake again. Guilt because he’s in Salt Lake City and she’s in Chicago, and he’s rarely bothered to visit since he left her behind in Illinois. Guilt because they haven’t been close since he was twelve, and who knows if there’s enough time to rectify that.

The guilt combines with helplessness because there’s nothing he can do from over a thousand miles away. And then the spite courses through his veins, ugly and stinging and unavoidable whenever his mom surfaces in his mind, because he shouldn’t need to do anything from a thousand miles away when his mom has Todd to take care of all her needs. He swallows the thought, along with his nausea.

“Mom, I…” Ricky trails off, utterly incapable of developing a single word or sentence. What is one supposed to say to their mother upon discovering they may potentially have cancer? 

“It’s okay, honey,” his mother says, but the tightness in her voice betrays her. She’s crying, and the thought of his mother in tears forces Ricky’s eyes to well up and spill over. He doesn’t sob. He won’t sob on the phone to her. But he cries silently, teardrop after teardrop streaking down his cheeks, cracking and blurring his vision until all he can see is the refracted light of the overhead lamp. “It’s going to be okay,” his mother repeats, as if he’s still a boy and this is just a bad nightmare. 

“Did you tell Dad?” Ricky whispers hoarsely. 

Lynne sighs. “I haven’t told Mike yet. But I will. I wanted to tell you first. But please, sweetie, listen to me. Don’t let this worry you too much. The doctor said it’s very common and most cases turn out to be completely harmless. It’s just a precaution, okay?” 

“Okay,” he says, willing himself to believe her words.

“I love you, Ricky.” 

His heart drops into the pit of his stomach. “I know, Mom,” he manages. 

“I’ll let you know what the test results say when I have them.” 

“Okay.” 

When Nini enters the bedroom, she finds Ricky slumped against the foot of the mattress, the phone abandoned face-up on the floor beside him. She rushes to his side. “What happened?” 

Ricky turns to face her. His eyes are glassy, his face red and his upper lip slick from his runny nose. “My mom,” he says, his voice hollow. “She, uh… She might have cancer.” 

Nini stifles her gasp and tries not to lose her footing as she eases herself down beside him, pulling him against her. He rests his head against her shoulder, his tears soaking her shirt. She combs her fingers loosely through his curls, soothing him. 

Finally, Ricky shakes his head. “You know what sucks the most?” he asks, eyes fixed on the baseboard. 

“What?” Nini asks gently.

“I just… Obviously I’m scared for my mom. But even as she was telling me about it, I couldn’t help but still feel a little angry at her, too.” 

Nini purses her lips and nods slowly. His parents’ divorce has always been a touchy subject, and so she’s never prodded him on it. The bits and pieces that he’s told her paint enough of a picture, though. The discontent that lingered over his household for the better part of a year. His mother’s business trips that seemed to grow lengthier and lengthier each time. The way his parents had dragged him to the arbitrator’s office and told him to choose who to live with and where to go, giving him ten minutes to chart the course of the rest of his life. “You can’t help how you feel,” she tries to reassure him. 

“It’s just so  _ stupid _ ,” Ricky insists, fists curling tightly. “I know I haven’t told you much about the divorce, but it was bad, Nini. It was really bad. You know how they told me?” He waits for her to shake her head before pressing on. “I came home from school and my mom already had a bunch of boxes packed. She thought it would be better if they broke the news right before she left. So I walked into a living room full of boxes and got told out-of-the-blue that my parents were splitting up.

And then, when they asked me who I wanted to live with, I picked my mom because that’s what kids are supposed to say, isn’t it? Like, if your parents split up, you’re supposed to go live with your mom. It wasn’t till we got to Chicago and Todd picked us up at the airport that I realized what was happening. She was sleeping with this guy the whole time. All those business trips were really just her going to meet him. And then, like a month after the divorce, they’re engaged and my dad can’t handle it so he drops off the face of the earth for  _ years  _ and I just...”

Nini pulls him tighter against her, rubbing soothing circles against his back. She urges herself not to cry, but the tears inevitably come anyway. “I know,” she whispers. 

“I didn’t want to be angry at her,” Ricky says shakily. “I mean,  _ shit _ . She might have cancer. But I just couldn’t help it.  _ God  _ I wish I could help it.”

“It’s okay!” Nini says urgently. “Ricky, it’s okay. You’ve been dealing with this for years. Those feelings don’t just go away overnight. Especially when you’ve never really had to face them before.”  _ I sound just like Lola _ , she thinks.

“I just feel like such a shitty person,” Ricky says. “My mom might have cancer and all I can think about is myself.”

“Don’t do that,” Nini chides, gently tipping his chin so that he’s looking her in the eye. “You are  _ not  _ a bad person, Ricky Bowen. You’re a great person. You know how I know? Because I’ve seen you give a pep talk to a roomful of theater kids at their lowest, and you made every single one of them believe. And when I didn’t believe and stormed out of rehearsal, you welcomed me back with open arms. You’re a great person because you  _ pay attention _ . You remember to water my plant and buy soy milk at the store and to ask for honey mustard on the side even when I forget. You’re a great person because you bought me flowers and greeted me at the airport even though I was only gone for three days. You’re great because you’re forgiving. I’ve seen how you act with EJ and Gina. And you’re a great person because I don’t know anyone else who would drop their own money on buying an instrument for one kid. No one else makes me feel as special and as safe and as cared for as you do, Ricky. And it’s something you do not just for me, but for everyone around you, and that’s why I love you Ricky. I-” 

She freezes, eyes widening. She hadn’t meant to say it. It had just slipped out, but she knows Ricky heard it too because he’s staring at her like a deer caught in headlights. “Ricky…”

“Oh,” he murmurs softly, eyes falling to the floor once more. 

She swallows and tilts her head, pleading silently for him to look at her again. “Ricky, I-” 

“It’s fine,” he shakes his head and slowly starts to rise to his feet. “Nini,” he locks eyes with her briefly, then looks away. “Thank you. For everything. Really. I just… I think I have a lot to figure out. I need time to think.”

“Right, of course,” she says, forcing the nonchalance in her tone because Ricky thinks better alone and that’s the last place she wants him to be right now.

“I… I should go.” 

“You don’t have to…”

“Just for tonight,” he promises. “Maybe tomorrow, too. I don’t know. I just… I need space to think. I’m sorry.” 

Nini follows him through the bedroom door but makes no effort to stop him as he slips into his shoes and grabs his keys off the peg. 

“I’ll call you,” he says. “Or text you. Or something.” 

_ Stop him!  _ Her brain screams.  _ Don’t let him walk out that door. Talk this out.  _ But she can’t bring herself to move, and so she watches as Ricky opens the door, gives her his best approximation of a smile, and then closes it behind him. She stands rooted to the spot as she hears his car start and the motor receding as he drives away. She keeps standing there until she’s positive she’s worn a hole into the hardwood beneath her feet. 

Wordlessly, she retreats to her room and locks the door, though she’s the only one in the house. She unlocks her phone and scrolls quickly to her favorites, choosing the number still saved as “Home” in her contacts.

Mama C picks up on the third ring. “Nini, sweetie!” She can hear the sound of a wine glass clinking as it’s set on the table. “We were just talking about you!” Mama C holds the phone away from her mouth. “Dana! Dinner’s ready! And Nini’s on the phone! What’s up, sweetheart?” her mother asks, voice returning to the receiver. 

Nini sucks in a watery breath and tries to hold it in, but her lip begins to quiver and she’s unable to hold back the sob that escapes her lips. “Mom… I think I fucked up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? The cancer subplot was one that I struggled with including because I want to give it the space and respect it's due without making it the focal point of the story. So to that end, yes this will be a continuing subplot but no, it's not taking over the story. One thing I struggled with when developing the overall plot was how to balance our Core Four - Ricky, Nini, Gina, and EJ - now that they've all sort of taken center stage in the narrative. It's been a tricky balance to find, but I hope I'm doing it justice. I wanted their lives to include other turmoils and tribulations outside of work and their relationships with each other. Again, I would love to hear what you think of this so far. 
> 
> Also, I'm very sorry for basically going AWOL for a few days. I needed some time to unplug for my own health and sanity. If you've left comments, messaged me on Tumblr or Twitter, etc., please know I'm not ignoring you! I will be getting back to you soon! And also, if you've written any lovely stories for the fandom lately, please know I'll be getting around to your work soon too (alovelylilt, Ella aka thefallingdead, and 716ag, I'm looking at ya'll specifically - and everyone should go give their works a read!). If you've written anything, let me know - I'd love to read it! 
> 
> Lastly, I hope you're all keeping safe and please know that I'm available to you if you want to chat, vent, scream into the void, complain, etc. My tumblr is ebi_pers. 
> 
> Oh and also, title for this chapter is from "Spring Awakening."


	9. If I Could Tell Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback you gave me on the last chapter. I'm relieved to know that you feel it's a direction worth pursuing. I was hella nervous publishing it at first, and I'm so grateful to everyone who's taken the time to let me know their thoughts. 
> 
> So here's the next chapter! With plenty of emotional hurt from both Ricky and Nini, of course, but hopefully you'll be happy with where we end up. And as always, I look forward to hearing what you think. Chapter title: "If I Could Tell Her." Cookies for anyone that can tell me where it's from. (Check the notes at the end to see if you're right - no cheating!) 
> 
> Language warning for this chapter! Liberal use of the f-word!

When he was in high school, Ricky would go to the skate park to clear his head. It was nearby and simple and it didn’t require the company of others. When he got his license and the keys to his first car, trips to the skatepark became mindless drives out of Chicago and into the surrounding suburbs where the roads were clearer and wider and there were fewer traffic lights to interrupt the pace of his driving and his thoughts. He had the windows rolled down because the A/C never worked properly and his iPod connected to the car’s speakers through an old tape deck. Just a boy and his yellow SUV with nowhere to go and nothing but time.

He’s retained the habit of driving to clear his mind, and he circles the blocks around his apartment now, but it somehow feels wrong. The night is a little too bright and a little too warm, and even with the windows down, he feels the need to blast the air conditioning. The speakers blare Skinny Love, but they lack the tinny sound quality of his high school days. The new car smell is overpowering. There’s no familiar shake from the right front tire and no rattle from the muffler. The smell of gasoline is curiously absent. 

Finally, when he decides he’s had enough of aimlessly circling, he pulls back into the driveway and cuts the motor. The headlights remain on for a few seconds, illuminating the chrome bumper of Big Red’s Volkswagen and reflecting back into his eyes. When they finally fade, spots linger in his vision. 

It takes all of Ricky’s effort to pull the handle and push the door open. His feet feel leaden and trudging up the gravel driveway feels like wading through quicksand. Every step threatens to pull him under. He shouldn’t have left. He knew it the moment he backed out of the parking lot and pulled away from the condo. This is not a good time for him to be alone with his thoughts. And yet, even as he chided himself with every passing minute, he couldn’t find the will to turn around. Nini’s three-word confession still rings in his ears, warring for dominance over his thoughts along with his mother’s potential diagnosis. 

Big Red has his feet up on the coffee table, Halfpipe dozing beside him. The Kardashians are locked in some kind of heated disagreement on the television. Ricky pries his shoes off and leaves them in a heap by the door before collapsing into the armchair. He feels his bottom lip quiver and fakes a yawn to stave off the sob that threatens to escape his throat, adding a long stretch for dramatic effect. 

“Tired?” Red glances at him, then back at the screen distractedly. 

“Yeah,” Ricky mumbles hoarsely, turning away from his best friend and pressing the flat throw pillow against his face to hide his expression and the blurry film of tears that forms in his eyes. He sucks in a long breath, but it feels like his lungs only fill to half capacity and he’s forced to suck in another before he exhales shakily, using the pillow to muffle the sound. His body trembles with the motion. 

When the show cuts to commercial, Big Red stands up and stretches, picking up his takeout container and moving toward the kitchen to throw it out. Halfpipe follows a step behind. The redhead freezes when he notices his roommate’s shoulders shudder and perceives the faint whimpering sound that Ricky emits. 

“Dude… Are you crying?” 

“No,” Ricky answers, his voice tight as he tries to hold back further tears. 

Big Red sets the container back down on the coffee table and perches on the smooth leather arm of the chair. His hand gently moves to Ricky’s back, rubbing slow circles there. “What happened?” 

Ricky tenses at his best friend’s touch, but slowly relaxes, his exhalation causing him to visibly deflate. Hesitantly, he turns to face his roommate, brown eyes glassy. A half-shed tear is tangled in his eyelashes. 

Big Red’s face drops. He’s seen Ricky upset plenty of times, and he knows his best friend well enough to know that he cries easily. He cries at everything, really. But of all the times he’s seen Ricky cry - the countless setbacks during the musical, FaceTime calls from the Philippines when he was homesick and regretting everything, that one time they decided to watch  _ Marley and Me _ \- he’s never seen him look like this. There’s a brokenness to his expression that worries him because Ricky Bowen is never broken. Knocked down, sure, but never defeated the way he looks now. “Ricky, what’s wrong?” he asks, trying to force the panic from his voice. 

“My mom,” Ricky manages shakily. 

“Is she alright?” 

He shakes his head. “M-my mom has cancer.” 

“What?” Red loses his balance and steadies himself against the back of the chair. “Where? When?” 

“W-well, she  _ might  _ have cancer,” Ricky clarifies, and Big Red only relaxes ever-so-slightly. “They found a lump,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I-in her breast. And they wanna do a mammogram next week to see i-if it’s… y’know.” 

“Dude. I’m sorry,” Red says softly. “I’m here for you. Just tell me what you need.” 

Ricky screws his eyes shut. “I don’t know,” he says miserably. “I don’t know what I need.”  _ Besides a time machine _ , he thinks. 

“Does Nini know?” the redhead questions.

Ricky nods, but his expression falters. 

“What?” 

“I fucked up, Red,” he sighs, a slight tremor in his voice.

“How so? Did you say something to your mom?” 

He shakes his head to clear the light-headedness that’s suddenly come on. “No, it’s not what I said. It’s what I  _ didn’t  _ say. To Nini, not my mom.”

“Wait, I’m lost,” Big Red says. “I thought we were talking about your mom.”

“We were,” Ricky answers. “It’s all related. I mean, I was with Nini when my mom called, so she was there when I got off the phone and I was spiralling about the whole thing and in the middle of it Nini just blurts that she loves me and obviously I know she didn’t mean for it to come out at that exact moment and she was just trying to comfort me but when she said it I froze, you know? And I couldn’t say it back.” He pauses, sucking in air. 

Big Red blinks and holds a hand up to stop Ricky when he looks prepared to launch into another ramble. “Whoa. That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Ricky breathes. 

“She said she loves you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And that’s...a bad thing?” 

“It is when I couldn’t say it back!” Ricky says, his voice rising in octave and volume. 

“Dude, it’s okay if you’re not ready to say it back to her yet. You know that, right? I’m sure she understands -” 

“No, it’s not that, Red,” Ricky answers, clutching his head in his hands. 

“Oh,” his roommate casts a glance down at the stitching in the leather. He brings his eyes back up to meet Ricky’s. “Well… Do you? Love her, I mean.” 

“I think so…” Ricky murmurs, then shakes his head, refusing to hedge any longer. “Yes,” he says resolutely. “I  _ know  _ I love Nini.” 

“You’re just not ready to say it yet because…” 

“I don’t know, Red. I just… I freaked out in the moment. Everything was happening so fast and I just… It caught me so off-guard.  _ God  _ I fucked up. I meant to say it. I should’ve said it. I don’t know  _ why  _ I couldn’t say it.”

“I do,” Big Red offers, and Ricky’s eyes flick to him immediately. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I know why you couldn’t say it. Or, I mean, I have a guess,” he corrects himself, then lets out a sigh. “Ricky,” Big Red’s hand finds its way to his shoulder again, giving a gentle squeeze. “I know that everything that went down between your parents fucked up your view of love. And I know you’re scared to tell people you love them because you’re scared that they’ll leave you. But guess what, dude? You can’t stop yourself from loving people. And you can’t stop them from loving you. I mean, you’ve got  _ so  _ many people who love you. I love you. Nini loves you. Ashlyn and Kourtney and Seb love you. Pretty sure even EJ and Gina would say they love you. Or like you, at least. And none of us are going anywhere. So if you love Nini, you should tell her how you feel. Don’t sabotage yourself by refusing to admit it. Because as much as I’m sure it hurts Nini, it hurts you even more, and I can’t stand to sit back and watch you let Nini slip away because you’re too afraid to let yourself love and be loved. You do so much for everyone around you. Don’t you deserve to accept some of that back?”

Ricky sits, stunned into silence. His mouth hangs open for a moment and Big Red gives him the slightest of grins. He’s so nonchalant about it that Ricky is forced to laugh. “Dude… You should’ve been a psychologist,” he shakes his head.

Big Red laughs too, his eyes shining with warmth. “I’m serious, Ricky,” he says, sobering suddenly. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Hell, dude, you’re practically my brother. I haven’t had that many friends in my life, if I’m being honest. Not a lot of people get me, you know? They think I’m a burnout or a bum or whatever. But calling you my best friend more than makes up for that because  _ you  _ get me. You’ve always gotten me. You’ve always been up for anything, anytime. Ride or die. And I know that no matter what, if you’re in on something, you’re in it a hundred percent. Especially when it comes to the people you care about. I know you’re scared to love,” he says. “But bad news, Ricky. You’ve been loving people this whole time. I don’t think anyone loves others as much as you do. You’re like… Like Mother Tessa.” 

Ricky’s vision starts to blur with tears, distorting his best friend’s face. His laugh is watery and hysterical. “Mother Teresa?” 

“Yeah,” Big Red brightens, his smile widening. “Her. You’re like Mother Teresa. You’re just… You show love for everyone without even trying. I guess what I’m trying to say is… The love that defined your parents doesn’t have to define you, too.” 

Ricky’s sighs, more an exultation than a sigh of remorse, and when he looks up at Big Red again there is a smile twitching at his lips. He feels his heart swell and his eyes crinkle at the corners, squeezing out a final unshed tear. “I love you, dude,” he says earnestly. 

Big Red’s eyes soften. “Perfect! Say it just like that to Nini.” He pauses, then adds, “On second thought, maybe leave out the ‘dude.’” 

Ricky shakes his head and chuckles. “I love you, dude,” he repeats. 

“I know.” 

* * *

“I fucked up, Kourt,” Nini wails, flopping back against Kourtney’s white leather couch. Her living room is cool - Kourtney always cranks the A/C up a little too high so she has an excuse to use her fuzzy blankets year-round. The floor lamps, carefully positioned to provide optimal lighting for selfies, illuminate the room in a cheerful, daytime glow despite the rapidly darkening sky outside. 

“Because you said you love him and he didn’t say it back?” Kourtney questions, combing her fingers through Nini’s hair as it dangles over the arm of the sofa. “I don’t know, Neens. I mean, I get he’s got baggage but  _ come on.  _ He’s a grown-ass man. He needs to get himself to therapy and deal with those mommy issues.” 

Nini’s first instinct is to make a noncommittal noise - something to validate Kourtney’s opinion even though she doesn’t agree. Yes, Ricky could probably do with some therapy to resolve the lingering issues his parents’ divorce created. But she also withheld the information about his mother from Kourtney - it isn’t her story to tell - and that makes all the difference right now.

“It’s not that I said I love him and that he didn’t say it back. I mean, if he’s not ready to say it, that’s okay.” 

“Is it, though?” Kourtney questions. “Because it seems like kind of a big deal to you.” 

“Do I wish he said it back? Yes,” Nini concedes with a sigh. “But I get it. We said we’d take things slow and I sort of jumped the gun. I just didn’t expect to fall for him as quickly as I did. Anyway, I didn’t even mean to say it to him tonight.”

“Then why did you?” Kourtney prods gently, weaving her hair into a loose, sloppy braid. The sensation - her best friend’s manicured nails gently scraping against her scalp as she gathers locks in her hand - is soothing. 

“I was trying to comfort him. He got some bad news tonight.” 

“What kind of bad news? Because I don’t think it gets much worse than his amazing, talented, smart,  _ gorgeous  _ girlfriend saying she loves him and him running away like a little -”

“His mom might have cancer,” Nini blurts.

Kourtney freezes, releasing her hair mid-braid. “Oh,” she murmurs. “ _ Shit _ .” 

“Yeah,” Nini breathes. 

“ _ Fuck _ , Nini, really?” Kourtney says. “Did you tell your moms about that, too?” 

She nods silently.

“What’d they say?” 

“Typical mom things? You know Mama C. She went all licensed-clinical-social-worker on me. Said that it’s better to have it out in the open so that Ricky knows how I feel, and so he knows he has a support system right now.” 

Kourtney shakes her head. “Well this complicates things… I almost feel bad for shit-talking the boy for a half hour.” She pulls out her phone, angling it upward so that Nini can’t see the screen. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“Calling in backup,” Kourtney replies. “Look, Neens. This whole situation sucks. For both you and Ricky. And I gotta be honest, I have no clue what to do.” 

“So who’d you call?” 

“Some friends.” 

A half hour later, the doorbell rings. Nini sits up and moves to answer it, but Kourtney beats her to the door. Ashlyn stands on the doorstep, dressed in a light blue t-shirt, her hand looped through a reusable grocery bag. Gina stands behind her, clad in a black leather jacket despite the humid night. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Ashlyn says. “We carpooled.” 

“And we stopped for provisions,” Gina adds, holding up a CVS bag. “How is she?”

“See for yourself,” Kourtney ushers them inside and Nini can’t help but feel the whole thing is a little dramatic. And morbid. She’s reminded of when her grandfather died. People scurried in and out of her house for days, bringing an endless stream of casseroles and baked goods in aluminum trays. All of her moms’ friends, and Lola’s friends, and her friends, too, speaking in hushed tones and smiling wanly as they made gentle conversation and tiptoed around the subject. She forces the thought from her head. It’s a little too similar to the reality Ricky might soon be facing.

“I’m not sick, you guys,” she forces the humor into her tone and winces immediately. 

“Heartbreak is its own form of illness,” Ashlyn says by way of greeting, easing herself down on the couch. 

“It’s not heartbreak,” Nini answers. “Not exactly, anyway.” 

“Well whatever it is, we brought ice cream and face masks,” Gina says, reaching into Ashlyn’s grocery bag. She pulls out a pint of coffee ice cream and a plastic spoon and sets them both on the coffee table. 

Ashlyn reaches past Gina and into the bag again, drawing out a carton of raspberry gelato and passing it wordlessly to Kourtney. “So,” she says, turning back to Nini. “Let’s hear it.” 

She tells them everything. The moment she realized she loved Ricky Bowen, a mere few weeks after they began dating. The aborted attempts to tell him. The failed attempts to get him to say it first. The phone call with his mother and her potential health crisis. The accidental “I love you” that slipped out as she tried to reassure him.

When she finishes, she swipes her spoon through the carton of ice cream and holds it in her mouth, the cool metal pressing against her tongue. They sit in silence for a few moments. Nini feels the face mask hardening against her pores. 

“I said the boy needs therapy,” Kourtney offers, breaking the lull in conversation. 

Ashlyn snorts. “Okay, obviously that,” she says. “But don’t we all?” 

Gina nods. “That’s what my therapist says  _ all  _ the time.” 

“Mine, too!” Ashlyn says. 

“And mine,” Kourtney agrees. “Do you think we’re all seeing the same therapist?” 

“Guys,” Nini calls their attention back, her smile cracking the face mask at the corners of her mouth. “I agree, but that doesn’t really help the situation immediately.” 

Ashlyn stares at the ground for a few moments, then looks up. “Well, I think the first question is, is this a dealbreaker? If Ricky can’t say ‘I love you’ back right now, where does that leave you?” 

Nini’s worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Okay?” she says. “Like, I think I’ll be fine?” 

“That doesn’t sound very confident,” Kourtney points out. 

“Okay, new question,” Gina speaks up. “Why does it matter so much? Why do you need Ricky to say it back at all?” She reaches out, laying a gentle hand on her knee. “Does it somehow make your feelings for him worth less if he doesn’t say it back?” 

Nini’s eyes snap to hers, and she remembers something Kourtney once told her. They were in high school at the time, and she’d been more than a bit boy-crazy. And her best friend had taken her aside in the middle of a karaoke night, when she’d gotten distracted (and a little downtrodden) by a group of senior boys leering at her from two tables away, and said… 

“You’re always looking for validation from boys, Neens.” 

It takes her a moment to realize Kourtney is speaking out loud. She turns to her best friend and knows from her look that she remembers, too. She says it like a casual observation. The sky is blue. The earth revolves around the sun. And Nini Salazar-Roberts has always judged her worthiness against the way boys see her. She’s only pretty if a boy thinks she’s pretty. She’s only loved if a boy says it back. Kourtney leans in, her dark eyes fixed on Nini’s. “Your feelings are valid regardless of whether or not Ricky - or anyone - reciprocates.” 

“Love requires submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known,” Gina offers with a grin.

Nini inhales shakily and nods. It’s nothing she doesn’t already know. And after hearing it from her moms, and from Kourtney, and now from Ashlyn and Gina, she decides that they must be right. At least now Ricky knows where she stands. She loves him. And nothing can change that, even if he isn’t ready to say it back. Even if he never says it back, though that prospect terrifies her to the point that she won’t entertain it. It’s better to share, she decides. Keeping it bottled up is exactly how she accidentally let it slip in the first place. 

“I regret how it came out,” she says to no one in particular. “But I don’t regret saying it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Kourtney nudges her gently, the corners of her mouth tweaking upwards. 

“So what now?” Ashlyn smiles. 

“I think Ricky and I need to have a talk,” Nini answers. “I don’t want him to feel pressured into saying he loves me if he’s not ready. And I need him to know that. And I also need him to know that it’s not going to change how I feel about him, either.”

* * *

Ricky lies on top of the covers because the bed feels emptier when he crawls beneath them and finds Nini isn’t there. Three times during the night, he reaches out and feels only empty space. The pillow beside him is uncharacteristically cool. The box fan on the floor drones incessantly, its buzz growing increasingly unbearable as the night drags on. Twice he reaches for his phone and composes an apology text to Nini in his notes. Each ends with an  _ I love you _ , but he decides that a text is the worst way to tell her, so he deletes it each time. 

Finally, around three AM, he falls into an uneasy sleep, punctuated with tossing and turning. He doesn’t dream often, and when he does, they’re usually abstract - more full of emotions than events. He dreams of colors and tunes and sensations, not people and places. 

He finds himself in a gray room in an anonymous hospital. The fluorescent lights bathe the space in a sterile, white glow. There is a bed in front of him, the mint-colored curtain pulled back just enough to see that a woman is occupying it. He’s startled when he realizes it’s his mother, clad in a pale blue hospital gown. Wires trail from her arms, her legs, her fingertips, leading to a wall full of machines he’s never seen before. They create a steady rhythm of beeps and chimes. The room reeks of hand sanitizer. 

He tries to take a step closer and finds himself unable to proceed further into the room. He squints, trying to get a better view of his mom. Her face is sallow and sunken, her breath coming in rattles. Her gaze is fixed directly in front of her, at a TV screen that plays nothing. She doesn’t blink and the labored rise and fall of her chest is the only indication that she’s alive at all. She doesn’t seem to register his presence in the room. 

Ricky opens his mouth, the word  _ mom  _ fully formed in his throat. But when he tries to speak, to call his mother’s attention to him, he finds that no sound comes out. The curtain rustles and a man steps closer to the bed. He expects it to be Todd, who has, for better or worse, been by his mother’s side since the divorce. He’s taken aback when he recognizes the tall, well-built frame, the salt-and-pepper stubble, and the hair that is graying at the edges.  _ Dad?  _

His parents don’t acknowledge one another. His mother’s gaze remains focused on the screen in front of her. His dad doesn’t look down at the bed once. He seems to be looking past his ex-wife. The machines beep. His mother sucks in a raspy breath. He blinks. And then he realizes that the cacophony of life-support devices is slowing steadily, the beeps becoming more irregular and spaced-apart. 

Ricky hasn’t spent much time in hospitals. He’s stayed in one only once, when he broke his leg falling off a skate ramp. But he hates them. He hates how sterile they are. He hates the slightly chemical smell that permeates every room, every hallway. He hates the way everyone walks briskly and silently. And he hates this room, too, with his parents who seem oblivious to his presence and the steadily slowing beeps.

He knows nothing about the machines his mother is hooked up to, but he’s reasonably sure they are responsible for keeping her alive. And he’s reasonably sure they aren’t supposed to be slowing down like this. He waits with wide eyes for his dad to do something. To say something. To push the button that will summon a nurse or run into the hallway and get help. He waits for his father to acknowledge that he, too, is standing in the room. The prodigal son returned to his mother’s bedside along with the man she once loved. But nothing happens. His mother keeps staring, her eyes empty, and his dad continues to look past her, and both seem completely unaware that anything is wrong at all.

_ I gotta do something _ .

Ricky tries to turn for the door that he’s sure must be right behind him, but his feet are rooted to the gray tile. He sees no doorway in his periphery. He opens his mouth to call out for a nurse or a doctor or  _ someone _ , but again the cry dies on the tip of his tongue. His jaw feels wired shut and immovable. His teeth are glued together, and his diaphragm is incapable of doing anything but pushing out an urgent exhale. The beeping continues to slow. His mom’s eyelids flutter shut. 

_ Dad, do something!  _

Suddenly, a door bursts open from somewhere behind him. It strikes him as odd because he’s certain there hadn’t been a door there seconds ago. A blond orderly brushes past him, dressed head-to-toe in light blue scrubs and a face mask. He turns to Ricky and nods reassuringly, and Ricky’s heart skips a beat because even though his face is obscured, he’d recognize those tortoise-shell frames anywhere.  _ Seb _ ?

A nurse rushes past him, so close that he feels a breeze. Her curly hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she turns around to give him an encouraging smile.  _ Gina?  _

“Don’t worry,” she says brightly. “We’ll take care of it.” 

“We?” He’s relieved that he can finally speak.

Gina nods, then turns back around to tend to his mother as EJ pushes into the room, dressed in a white coat with a stethoscope dangling around his neck. His expression is concerned, but not panicked, and he approaches his mother’s bedside confidently as Ashlyn materializes at his side, murmuring something to her cousin and nodding at his response. 

Kourtney and Carlos enter from the other side of the room, stepping around the curtain and past his father, who continues to stare, frozen to the spot. Carlos examines some of the wires while Kourtney snaps on a pair of latex gloves. 

“She’s coding!” EJ calls, and Gina reaches immediately for a button over his mother’s bed. 

Suddenly, Nini and Big Red race in. His mouth hangs open, and he’s barely able to formulate an awed “Nini?” 

She pauses just for a moment and turns to face him, her smile soft and encouraging. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she says simply. Big Red offers him a thumb’s up before joining the rest of his scrub-clad friends at his mother’s bedside. They move in perfect sync, their motions confident and steady. More people enter the room - faces he hasn’t seen in years. Friends from college and high school. Students from this year and last. Coworkers from his year abroad. They stream into the room until he can no longer see the hospital bed or his parents, and until he can no longer hear anything but their voices or feel anything but their warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, the dream sequence was very experimental for me and I'm not 100% how successful it was. I do intend for the "I love you" dilemma to parallel the series in some ways, but I do plan to wrap this up pretty quickly (and I have some super fluffy scenes in mind once that happens, so look forward to that!). Let me know what you think! I'll be honest, this story has departed from my original drafts and outlines in some ways, but I'm kind of happy to pursue this tangent - writing has definitely been getting me through some tough times recently. 
> 
> Title of this chapter is from Dear Evan Hansen. The music from that show has been some of my favorite of any recent Broadway show. 
> 
> Seek me out on Tumblr (ebi-pers) if you wanna chat. I've definitely been having some rough spots lately so I apologize for those I haven't been regularly in-contact with, but things are much better now and if anyone needs a sounding board, I am always open. I love you all from the bottom of my heart. Be safe, be well, and above all: be kind!


	10. What More Can I Say

Ricky slinks into school a half hour earlier than usual. He needs time to get his thoughts together. He needs to work out what he’ll say to Nini when he sees her. He refuses to let his words overtake his brain like they usually do. The stakes are too high this time. The bags under his eyes pull his entire expression downwards, belying his lack of sleep, and he trudges down the hallway like a sleepwalker.

EJ stands by the water fountain, pausing when he spots him. “Whoa. You look like hell,” he comments, screwing the cap back on his water bottle.

“Thanks,” Ricky answers flatly, fishing in his bag for his lanyard and key. He draws it out and inserts it into the doorknob, yanking the door open with more force than he intended. He flicks the lights on.

EJ follows him into the music room. “You alright?” he asks.

“Not really,” Ricky calls over his shoulder. 

“Do you...wanna talk about it? Maybe?” 

“Not really,” Ricky repeats tiredly. The thought of telling anyone else about what happened is exhausting. 

“Dude, c’mon,” the gym teacher urges. “I learned the hard way that keeping it bottled up only makes it hurt more.” His hand closes over the younger man’s shoulder, offering an encouraging squeeze. 

Ricky resists the urge to shake him off and tells himself that EJ means well. For all his cluelessness and ham-fisted overtures, he means well. He sighs again. “I got some bad news last night,” he offers nebulously, hoping it’s enough to get his colleague off his back. 

“About what?” EJ presses. 

“My mom,” he finally says, surprising himself with how quickly he caves. It feels good to get it out. It feels good to share the secret with someone besides Big Red. “She, uh… She might have cancer.” He dares to bring his eyes up to meet EJ’s.

EJ’s face falls, blue-green eyes wide and mournful. “Oh man,” he murmurs. “Ricky… That really sucks. I’m sorry. But I know how you feel. When I was in fifth grade, we found out that my aunt had thyroid cancer…” 

“What happened? Is she okay?” Ricky asks, his voice desperate and hopeful. 

“She’s fine,” EJ soothes. “She made a full recovery. Fifteen years cancer free.” 

“That’s good,” Ricky breathes. 

EJ nods. “They caught it early.” 

“Yeah,” the younger man responds, more to himself than to EJ. “Yeah, they aren’t even sure if it is cancer yet. But if it is, they think they caught it early.” 

“Then your mom’s got a good chance,” the gym teacher assures him. 

He knows. He Googled the survival rate for early stage breast cancer the minute he got home. But it’s still good to hear it from someone else. Someone with firsthand knowledge. 

EJ claps him on the back. “You’re gonna get through this, Ricky. And, uh, if you ever wanna talk about it with someone who knows… Or if you need, like, an oncologist or something, I’m here.” His smile is tight and a little sad, but sincere nonetheless. 

“Thanks,” Ricky murmurs, feeling himself brighten. 

“Anyway,” EJ starts for the door, “I’ll see you later?” 

The music teacher nods, but a thought strikes him and the words have left his mouth before he can even process whether it’s a good idea or not. “Hey, EJ?” 

The gym teacher pauses in the doorway and turns around. “What’s up?”

“Can I...ask you something kinda personal? And it’s totally cool if you don’t want me to. Like, I get it. We don’t exactly know each other like that but…”

“It’s fine,” EJ chuckles, leaning against the doorpost and folding his arms. “What is it?” He looks genuinely interested. 

“Um… When you and Nini were…”

“Dating?” he fills in.

“Yeah, when you were dating,” Ricky affirms. “Did you guys ever have a fight?” 

For a moment, the older man looks like a deer caught in headlights. His mind flicks through every minor disagreement he ever had with his former girlfriend, trying to determine what constitutes a fight. “I’m not sure,” he finally says slowly. “Could you be more specific?” 

“She told me she loves me,” Ricky blurts, feeling the color drain from his face the second he says it. “And, uh, I couldn’t - didn’t - say it back. And I just… I really wanna make it up to her and fix this but I don’t know how, and I know you probably don’t wanna hear about how your ex said she loves someone else, and I really wouldn’t blame you for just walking out and never talking to me again because it’s really not your problem…” 

“Dude. Ricky. Relax,” EJ holds up a hand placatingly. For a moment, Ricky wonders if he’s done the right thing. He’s reasonably sure that EJ has moved on from Nini, but at the same time, it was EJ who’d tried to sabotage them in the first place. And who’s to say he won’t do the same now.

“That’s a tough one. Not gonna lie,” EJ begins haltingly. “Do you want my advice?” 

Ricky shrugs and tries to play it off like no big deal, but he practically begs EJ internally. After all, EJ and Nini dated for a year before Ricky even arrived at East High. And while he’s pretty confident that he knows his girlfriend, he probably doesn’t know her in this context as well as EJ does. 

“Nini’s sentimental,” EJ says. “Things like ‘I-love-yous’ are really important to her. She doesn’t say things like that to just about anyone. One thing I learned really quickly is that every time she says ‘I love you,’ she absolutely means it. And she has a way of saying it that makes you feel invincible. So pray she never stops saying it to you, Ricky.” 

The younger man nods. He knows Nini’s superpower. Nothing makes him feel quite as fearless and quite as untouchable as she does. “How do I salvage this?” he pleads.

“Well, first of all, let me ask you this: do you love her? And be honest. I swear I’m not gonna judge.” 

“I do,” Ricky replies evenly. 

“Then you should tell her,” EJ says. “Do something grand. Something sentimental. She’ll appreciate it and it’ll show her that you pay attention. That you do really care, even if you couldn’t say it right then.” 

Ricky wets his lips and nods, racking his brain for ideas. “Thanks, EJ,” he says sincerely. “You didn’t have to help me.” 

EJ shrugs. “Nini deserves to be happy. You both do.” 

Ricky smiles. “So do you,” he says. 

EJ snorts and starts for the door. “I am happy. I’m great,” he says. The words hang for a moment, and Ricky wonders if he’s bluffing. He’s reasonably sure he is, but he decides to let the statement stand. He nods affirmatively and EJ ducks out the door. 

_ You should tell her _ , Big Red’s voice swirls around his head.

_ A grand gesture. Something sentimental. Something to show her that you’ve been paying attention,  _ EJ’s voice adds.

Ricky sits at his desk and taps his pen repeatedly against the surface, trying to think of a way to put their advice to action. He chides himself for not saying it when he had the chance, though he’s admittedly never been great with words. At least not in the moment. Not when he needs to speak them out loud. An idea comes to him suddenly and he practically yanks the top drawer open, pulling out a light blue Post-It note. 

If he can’t speak them out loud, he’ll write them down. All the things he’s known but couldn’t say. Everything that he knows about Nini that’s made him feel so certain that he loves her.

* * *

Nini gulps when she pulls her car into the nearly-empty parking lot and spots Ricky’s light blue CR-V already there. She’d been hoping to get in before he did so that she could work out what to say to him: what to apologize for and what to express. It seems he had a similar idea.

She gingerly opens the front door of the school and steps carefully inside, as if the slightest noise might summon Ricky to her before she’s ready. Her mind races with everything her moms, Kourtney, Gina, and Ashlyn told her as she heads to her classroom and puts her things down. She pulls her hair into a tight ponytail and checks the clock. Still a half hour before school starts. She sighs and gathers up some papers to copy, treading softly to the faculty lounge. 

The Xerox machine hums as it spits out page after page, the scent of warm paper and fresh ink filling the room. Every creak causes her to wheel around and face the door, half-hopeful and half-afraid that it will be her boyfriend in the doorway. But she knows it won’t be. If she knows Ricky, he’ll be in his office, retreating into sheet music or an instrument in need of repair to distract himself from everything that’s happened. She resolves to go there when she's finished making copies, to talk to him on his home turf where he’ll feel more at-ease.

* * *

They bump into each other quite literally. Ricky pushes the music room door open just as Nini prepares to pull it back, and he falls against her with a cry of surprise, sending her copies scattering to the floor. 

“Ricky!” she breathes, startled.

“Holy crap, I’m so sorry!” he says, falling to his hands and knees to pick up the papers that litter the hallway. She stoops and helps him gather them up. “I was just coming to see you,” he says, gathering the copies into a pile and handing them to her. 

“Me too,” she says softly, bringing her eyes up to meet his. 

“I was wrong,” they say simultaneously, and he blushes immediately afterwards while her eyes seek the floor.

“You go first,” Nini says.

“No, you go,” he insists, shifting from one foot to the other.

“No, you -” she starts, but stops herself and sighs, deflating ever-so-slightly. “Okay. Here goes.” She winces when Ricky tenses up and reaches for his arm instinctively, closing her fingers around his forearm and offering a gentle squeeze that brings his eyes back to hers. 

“Yesterday, when I said...what I said,” she begins, “It just sort of slipped out. It’s something that I’ve been thinking about for a long time, though, and I’ve wanted to say it to you for a while but the timing never felt right. Seeing how upset you were after you got off the phone with your mom… I wanted to comfort you and reassure you and tell you that I’m always gonna be here for you, Ricky. And I guess somewhere in that process, my mouth got ahead of my brain and I just said it. When you left, I thought I lost you for good. I was so sure you weren’t coming back again. But I talked to my moms -”

“Your moms know?” Ricky groans, if only to distract himself from where this conversation is headed. 

“Let me finish!” Nini bites back a soft grin. “I talked to my moms and I talked to some friends and I realized that I’d rather let you know now, while there’s time, that I  _ love  _ you, Ricky Bowen. And it’s okay if you aren’t there yet. I won’t stop loving you either way. I’m sorry that I sprung it on you. I’m sorry I put you on the spot and made you feel like I was expecting you to say it back to me. I sort of was, in that moment. But not anymore,” she shakes her head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. She hasn’t withdrawn her hand from his arm, and she squeezes it again now to remind him that it’s there. And to remind herself that she can still feel him under her fingertips - the smooth cotton of his shirt, the warm skin underneath. “You don’t have to say you love me if you aren’t ready,” she repeats, her voice a whisper. “It doesn’t change a thing about how I feel for you. I love you, Ricky. I regret how it came out, but I don’t regret saying it.” 

Her lips curve upwards and with a final, reassuring squeeze, she lets go and turns to head to her classroom. Ricky fumbles for a moment, his thoughts knocking around his head at the speed of light, all rushing to the tip of his tongue at once. “Nini, wait!” he says, as if he’s gasping for air. She turns quickly, her ponytail swishing with the motion. Her expression is hopeful but laced with trepidation. 

For a moment, Ricky wants to reach into his back pocket where the Post-It note is folded into a neat square. But he doesn’t. He’s committed it to memory, perhaps even before he wrote it down. 

“Nini,” he sucks in a breath, “After you told me...what you told me. It got me thinking of all the things I know about you. All the things I love about you. I know you like soy milk in your lattes, but you hate the way soy milk tastes on its own. I know you double-knot your sneakers because your pet peeve is when things come undone. I know you’re the opposite of a green thumb, but it’s okay because I water your plant now and we all have our strengths and weaknesses. I know that when you concentrate, you hum to yourself and you don’t realize I can hear it, but I can and I love it.” 

She feels the familiar heat creeping from the base of her neck to the tips of her ears, and her vision turns glassy as he continues.

“I know that when you’re reading to yourself, you move your lips with the words. And sometimes, I try to read your lips to figure out what the story’s about. I know you relax by taking a bath on Friday nights, and your favorite bath time music is Sara Bareilles because you can sing along and you sound  _ amazing _ when you do. I know that you drink green tea in the afternoon and you always leave your mug on the coffee table, and I don’t mind because there’s always this cool green ring in the bottom when I take it to the dishwasher. I know that you always eat the almonds in your trail mix first, but you won’t just buy a bag of almonds because you like the way the rest of the trail mix seasons them. I know that when you want to swear but can’t, you do it in Tagalog. You say, um…”

Nini’s laugh is watery and sincere. “ _ Putang ina mo _ ,” she supplies.

“Yeah, that,” he laughs, too, and feels his heart swelling, rising to his throat. He wipes at his eyes preemptively. “And here’s some other things I know,” he continues, his voice soft. “I know that when I sleep next to you, the things that scare me in my dreams can’t touch me. I know that when I look at you, it’s not my other half that I’m seeing, it’s my complement. Because I don’t need you to complete me, but I need you to make me better. And I know that you believe in the universe. And I believe that the universe brought us together.

Yesterday, when you told me you loved me. I meant to say it. I meant to say it. And I’ve kicked myself ever since then because I didn’t say it. But just because I couldn’t say it then, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I’m happier with you than I’ve ever been before, and every little thing you do just blows me away. Seriously, sometimes I have to sit in awe because I can’t believe you exist, much less that you’re mine. So I think… I kinda… You know…” 

Nini feels herself rising onto the tips of her toes, hanging onto every word. The sensation is warm and giddy, and the tears that stream freely down her cheeks are tears of elation, of joy, of love, of every complex and beautiful emotion Ricky Bowen has ever made her feel. “You think you kinda, you know, what?” she teases softly, unable to raise her voice any louder without it breaking.

“I love you, Nini Salazar-Roberts,” Ricky finally exults. “I do. I’ve known it for a long time, but I was too afraid to tell you because my parents loved each other once, and now they don’t. And I was scared that the second I put it out into the universe, something would happen to take that away. But after everything with my mom last night, I know now that I’d rather take a chance and tell you while I still have time to. So I love you. I am absolutely, completely, totally in love with you and I’m an idiot for not telling you that last night.” He falls to his knees pleadingly and Nini can’t help but giggle at the spectacle while her stomach does flips inside her. “And I’m asking - no, I’m  _ begging  _ \- for forgiveness.” 

“Get up,” Nini commands gently between laughs, offering her hand to help haul him to his feet. She yanks him close to her and he leans down, their foreheads touching. “You’re so dramatic,” she chides him good-naturedly. 

“Do you forgive me?” he whispers, turning his deep brown puppy-dog eyes on her.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she breathes. “I already told you. I love you, Ricky. Whether you’re ready to say it or not, I’ll still love you.” 

“I’m ready to say it,” he responds. “I won’t stop saying it. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love y-” 

She cuts him off with a kiss, sealing her lips against his. Her mind buzzes as he gently tilts her head up toward him. There is an urgency to his kiss, an ardent desire to tell her something that she innately understands. They both gasp for air when they pull apart, briefly glancing around the hall to ensure no one witnessed them. She commends herself for arriving at school so early, and she’s grateful he had the same idea. 

Nini reaches for Ricky’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “Whatever happens next,” she says, looking him in the eye, “with your mom, with the musical, with school and our jobs and anything else the world can throw at us, we’re in this together. And I’m okay with that because you’re by my side.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter was tough to start but once I got going, man I couldn't stop! I meant for this to go up sooner. Sorry for the delay. Real life sometimes gets in the way of writing and I was busy adulting, but on the bright side, I JUST BOUGHT A NEW CAR! 
> 
> But anyway, enough about me. I told you I would be wrapping the "I-love-you" plot up pretty quickly. I'm curious to know your thoughts on the matter. And now, with this subplot out of the way, we'll continue on with our main problem about the musical. Seriously, thank you all so much for your support and kudos and comments and everything you all do. My heart can't contain the love I feel for each of you, and unlike Ricky I have no problem expressing it!
> 
> ALSO: I have a new oneshot in the works. A little birdy told me ya'll like domestic Rini and if that's the case, I hope to deliver once it's finished. So keep an eye out for that! 
> 
> ALSO ALSO: chapter title this time is from Falsettos!


	11. Stick It To The Man

“Hey, Ricky?” 

The music teacher looks up at the sound of his name. Gina stands in the doorway of his office, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

“Got a minute?” she asks. He nods and she saunters into the room, easing herself into one of the blue, fabric-backed chairs across from his desk and crossing one leg over the other. The side zipper of her boot glints off the incandescent light. “Nini told me,” Gina begins, bouncing her foot back and forth. 

“I guess you’re one of the friends she consulted,” he says witheringly. He’d figured Kourtney had been one of the people she’d talked to, but he’d been hoping she’d left their coworkers out of it. And if Gina knows, Ashlyn almost certainly does, too. Possibly Seb as well.

“Yeah,” Gina nods. “But that’s actually not what I meant.” 

“Oh?” 

“Nini told us about the other thing. With your mom.” 

“Oh.” He momentarily wishes Nini hadn’t said anything about it. But then again, he knows her well enough to know that she wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. 

“How are you doing?” she asks. 

He sighs. She isn’t the first to ask him this. She isn’t even the first to ask him this today. This morning, when he stumbled bleary-eyed and bed-headed out of his room, Big Red had been waiting for him in the kitchen with a soft smile and microwave pancakes piled high with whipped cream, and he’d asked how he was doing. He’d encountered EJ in the hall after first period and, after this morning’s confession, the gym teacher had also asked how he was doing. Nini can’t seem to stop asking. And as much as he appreciates his friends’ concern, he also wishes they’d stop. 

It’s hard enough trying to figure out how he feels, let alone put words to it that someone else will understand. He’s sad. He’s scared. He’s anxious. He’s angry, though he doesn’t know at whom or what. So he answers everyone with a slow nod and a mumbled “I’m fine.” So far, only Big Red and Nini have clearly not believed him. 

It reminds him a little too much of his parents’ divorce. All of his friends had acted the same way when the news had broken. His teachers had taken him aside in the hall and asked in soft, sympathetic voices if there was anything they could do to help. The guidance counselor practically grilled him for an hour before pronouncing him stable and alright. 

“I’m okay,” he says to Gina, bringing his gaze up to meet hers in an attempt to convince her. 

“Okay,” she nods a little too quickly. “But if you’re ever not okay… That’s okay, too,” she adds, then sighs. “Take it from someone who’s an expert at having their life upended. You will survive this, Ricky.” She leans forward in her chair, as if she’s about to share a secret. “I’m not gonna lie. It will suck. And I won’t pretend that it’s somehow part of a greater plan or whatever because trust me, sometimes a shitty situation is just a shitty situation. But think of all the adversity you’ve faced in your life.” 

He releases a trembling breath. 

“You taught abroad. You moved to a whole new city in a whole new  _ country  _ and started over from scratch. And then you did the same thing again when you came here. And that’s not even counting all the bullshit from last year…” She lets the last bit hang for a moment, expecting him to get a snipe in or to point out that the bullshit from last year was entirely  _ her  _ fault. But he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, and so she presses on. “You overcame all of that. And you’ll overcome this, too,” she promises. “No matter what happens, believe me when I say, it may not all turn out fine. But you will.” 

The bell rings. Five minutes until the next period starts. Gina rises and smooths out the creases in her gray dress pants. “If you ever need to talk, or you want someone to commiserate with, or you just wanna scream into the void, you know where to find me.” She smiles reassuringly. 

“Thanks,” Ricky answers, returning her smile. He had once questioned how Nini could forgive and befriend Gina so easily after all that had happened, but as he watches her leave, he starts to understand. 

* * *

“Ms. Salazar-Roberts? Do you have a minute?”  Nini looks up from her phone as Mariela, Noah, and Rynn troop into her classroom. The halls are largely empty, and the last remaining students not attending clubs filter past on their way out the door. “Sure,” she says warmly. “What’s up?” 

“We have a proposal,” Rynn announces, a sly smile spreading across her ruddy face. Her blue eyes twinkle.

“It was Mariela’s idea,” Noah continues nervously, fiddling with the strings of his sweatshirt. 

“A proposal?” Nini repeats, glancing from one student to the next, searching their faces for any indication of what they might be talking about. 

“A proposal,” Mariela confirms, nodding resolutely.

Nini grins gamely, easing herself back into her desk chair. Her students take their usual seats. “Alright, let’s hear it,” she says. “What are you proposing? No homework for the rest of the month? Open-book tests?” 

“Not quite,” Mariela replies, glancing at her friends and then around the room, ascertaining that they’re alone. “So you told us Mr. Mazzara canceled the musical, right?” she begins. Nini nods hesitantly. “Well, if he won’t let us have a musical, then we want to have a revue instead.” She pauses, letting the teacher process her words.

“Mariela, I’m not sure-” Nini begins.

“Hold on!” the girl pleads. “Before you shoot us down, there’s more.” She glances at Rynn, who clears her throat. 

“There’s going to be an emergency school board meeting at East High. Mr. Mazzara is supposed to present his revised budget for the school year. If it gets approved, then he’ll be able to fund - and defund - whatever he wants.” 

“It’s open to the public,” Noah puts in. “Though hardly anyone ever attends…”

“Which is probably just what they want,” Rynn resumes. “This way they can get everything approved without public comment.” 

“We want to stage the revue at that board meeting,” Mariela finishes. “We need to show Mr. Mazzara and the school board that the arts are an important part of East High, and that he can’t just take it all away from us! And what better way than to show off our talent? Show them what they’re robbing us of?”

Nini lets out a sigh, her expression wavering. “Guys,” she says, her tone measured. “I get that you’re upset about the musical. Believe me, so am I.” She shakes her head. It’s not a bad idea, all things considered, but she also knows that they’re likely to end up in deep trouble over such a disruptive - and public - protest. She can’t allow them to risk their academic records for this. “I’m not sure if they’ll listen to three students, though,” she says, hoping it’s enough to dissuade them. 

“But that’s just it,” Mariela counters. “We already talked to the rest of the drama club and they’re in. And not just drama club, but choir and marching band, too.” 

“Lit mag,” Rynn reminds her. 

“And art club,” Noah throws in.

“Sports teams, robotics…” Mariela continues to rattle off clubs. “We reached out to  _ everyone _ . So many kids are in on this, and the ones who aren’t will probably be convinced. They can’t ignore all of us.” 

Nini bites her lip. “I really admire your passion. Seriously, the three of you have so much spirit. But I don’t know if it’s a good idea. The board isn’t going to take kindly to an interruption like this, and I don’t want to see you all get in trouble over it.” 

“C’mon, Ms. Salazar-Roberts,” Mariela begs. “It’s like  _ The Crucible _ ! Mazzara is demanding that we all conform to what  _ he  _ wants for this school. I thought the whole point of reading that play is that we shouldn’t just blindly conform.”

She can’t help but smirk. “Well it seems like you’re pretty intent on doing this one way or the other. So why do you need me?” 

“We thought it might be more effective if some of the teachers also spoke up in support of the arts,” Rynn says haltingly. “You know? Show the board that there are students who want arts programs and teachers who want to run them.” 

Nini sighs. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m worried that this won’t be as easy to pull of as you think. And the repercussions might be a lot more severe than you expect. I understand that you’re mad at Mr. Mazzara, but he still has a lot of power and he seems pretty determined to do things his way…” 

“Just consider it?” Mariela asks. 

The teacher pauses, then nods slowly. “I’ll think about it,” she relents.

As the three students head for the door, she hears Mariela turn to Rynn and mumble, “I hope Devin’s having better luck with Mr. Bowen.” 

* * *

“So yeah. That’s the plan,” Devin finishes laying out the idea that Mariela came up with over multiple lunch brainstorms. “There’s no way they can ignore us if we stage something at the board meeting. And they have to enter it all into the minutes,” he says. “So everyone will know what happened.” 

Ricky beams at the boy, who stares up at him through copper bangs. “I gotta say, Devin, I’m impressed,” he says. “I admire the whole ‘stick-it-to-the-man’ thing.” He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can’t say I condone it because you never know who’s listening,” he glances about surreptitiously. “But I can say that I’m proud of you. Of all of you.” 

“Then will you be part of the revue too?” 

“What?” Ricky sputters.

“We want teachers to join,” Devin says. “It’ll really send a message. The arts aren’t important just to the students, but to the staff, too!” 

His mind races, and his instincts tell him to agree immediately. Were he still in high school - heck, were he still in college - he would’ve been all-in on a protest like this. But he’s not a kid anymore. He’s an adult. He’s  _ the  _ adult in this situation. And he’s got a job to think about. “Uh… Can I get back to you on that?” He tries to ignore the brief, crestfallen expression Devin makes before he brightens and agrees to give the music teacher all the time he needs.

* * *

“Alright everyone, let’s pack it up,” Gina calls. “Make sure that any loose components are labeled and bagged before you put them back in the box or you’re gonna be really confused next time.” 

She watches as the robotics club members begin to pack away half-assembled pieces, carefully inventorying and labeling each piece before setting them into their respective containers. 

“Ms. Porter?” Annie says softly. The teacher whirls around to face her. “Can we talk? Like, privately?” 

Gina glances over her shoulder, verifying that the other club members are occupied with putting their parts away, then nods and steps to the side of the cafeteria. “What’s going on?” 

The girl hesitates a moment, wringing her hands. “Well, um. I got approached by a senior today,” she says. “Her name’s Mariela. She’s from the drama club?” 

“I know Mariela,” Gina says. 

“Yeah. Well, um, she pitched this idea to me. And I thought it was kinda interesting. And she wanted to know if maybe the robotics club could help her out with it, so I said I would ask you.” 

“I’m sure we could lend a hand,” the math teacher says. “Like I said, we support other school programs all the time.” 

“Well that’s just it,” Annie says. “It’s…not exactly a school program. It’s a revue.” 

“A review for what?” 

“No, a revue. Like a musical show. Since the musical and all those other clubs got canceled, they want to stage it at the next board meeting to show everyone that the arts matter. Mariela asked me if I wanted to join, and I said yes, but now I’m not so sure anymore…” 

Gina nods sympathetically. It’s a transfer student’s dream to be included in anything. Especially by a senior. Especially when it involves open rebellion. And truth be told, she’s impressed that any of the students at East High would have the audacity to defy Mazzara so publicly. “Why aren’t you so sure anymore?” she asks gently.

“Well…” Annie frowns. “I just… I feel like if I get the robotics club involved, then you and everyone else is gonna get in trouble, and I don’t wanna get anyone in trouble. I guess… I guess I was just asking for permission from you is all.” 

Gina folds her arms. Annie has a point. If this plan comes to fruition, and if it backfires - two very big  _ ifs _ \- then the entire club could be in jeopardy. Not to mention her own job. Her first instinct is to dissuade Annie from taking part for fear that she’ll take everyone else down with her. But Mazzara’s words ring in her head.  _ You remind me of myself when I was younger _ . 

She’s positive that she doesn’t want to be anything like Benjamin Mazzara. Benjamin Mazzara is willing to sacrifice just about anything to achieve his goals. Benjamin Mazzara didn’t think twice about ripping away the music program, equipment for the basketball team, and the entire drama club. Gina from last year would have supported him whole-heartedly. But present day Gina is disgusted with who she was last year, and she refuses to allow herself to be that way again. 

“Annie,” she says, her voice calm and even. “You need to do what you think is right here. This is about more than a club. This is about your conscience, and believe me when I say that if you go against what your conscience tells you is right, it will keep you up at night. I can’t tell you what to do here, and I can’t give you permission. But I will support whatever decision you make.” 

The girl wets her lips and rocks back and forth on her heels, then looks up. “I want to do it,” she says.

Gina tries and fails to bite back the grin that spreads over her face. “Just let me know how to support you.” 

“Actually,” Annie’s face lights up. “There is one thing…” 

* * *

EJ locks up the PE office and swings his lanyard before shoving it back into the pocket of his track pants. He starts for the gym door but gets intercepted by Max partway there. 

“Hey Coach! Got a minute?” The lanky teen jogs over to him. 

“I’ve always got a minute for one of my players. What’s up?” EJ pauses at half-court. 

“I’ve got a problem,” he says. “And I wanted to ask you for advice.” 

The coach smiles. “Sure! Anything.” 

“So there’s this girl,” Max begins. 

“Okay, whoa,” EJ holds up a hand. “Wait a minute, now. I don’t know if this is something you should be telling me…” 

“What? No, not like that!” Max blushes furiously. “That’s not what I meant. It’s, uh, actually… Well, Mariela. From the drama club? Remember? Long, black hair? Really pretty? We helped her with the musical last year?” 

“I remember,” EJ nods, arching an eyebrow. 

“So, she’s, uh, doing this thing. Sorta like a protest at the school board meeting. She wants to call out the superintendent for canceling the musical and she asked if I could get some of the guys from the team to show up… What should I do?” 

EJ’s first instinct is to tell the boy to go for it. The idea of a group of students interrupting Mazzara’s address at the school board meeting is enough to make him smile a little bit. His second instinct is to tell the boy to forget it. A protest of any kind is a huge risk, especially in his senior year while big name schools are scouting him. His third instinct is to tell Max to do whatever he wants because once he gets to college - especially if he plays for a D1 school - every aspect of his life will be tightly managed. Diet, workout regime, social media, who he’s seen with. All of it will be controlled and the public eye will, to some extent, be unavoidable. Better to stand for something now, while he still can.

“What do you want to do, Max?” he asks.

“I want to do it,” he says. “Someone’s gotta stand up to the superintendent, right? We can’t just let him keep cutting things left and right. But I don’t wanna jeopardize my spot on the team.” 

“I’ll put it to you this way,” EJ begins. “I like the idea of a coalition. It drives home the fact that your team extends far beyond just Leopards basketball. Your team is the whole school. So why would I punish you for supporting your team?”

Max brightens, nodding slowly. “So you’re saying I should do it?” 

“I’m saying you should do what you want to do,” EJ says. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it, there may be consequences for your protest, but I sure as hell won’t be the one giving them.”

* * *

Gina is opening her car door just as EJ emerges from the building, heading for his car two spaces beside hers. She stops when she spots him, lingering beside her open driver’s side door with a small grin playing at her lips. “Been a while since we met like this,” she says. 

He returns her smile, glancing up at the still-bright evening sky. “Still too light out,” he says. “I thought we only met under the cover of darkness.” 

“Only when we’re scheming,” Gina shrugs. 

“Oh, but I  _ am  _ scheming,” he tells her.

“Really?” she fixes him with an incredulous look, one eyebrow quirked and her hand on her hip.

“Don’t tell anyone,” EJ lowers his voice, glancing cautiously around the parking lot for anyone else in earshot, “but the kids are planning a protest of some kind at the board meeting. One of my players asked if I’d help out. They want teacher support.” 

“Funny,” Gina says. “One of my robotics club members asked me the same.”

“Are you gonna do it?” 

Her expression wavers. She’s gone back and forth a hundred times in her own mind since Annie suggested it. The truth is that no matter what happens, Mazzara has made it clear that he likes her, and that she is an essential part of his plan to boost STEM programs at the school. She’s safe unless she makes waves. “I said I would think about it.” 

“I think you should,” EJ encourages. “I mean, one or two teachers making a fuss probably won’t sway them. But imagine how convincing it would be to have a math teacher taking a stand? They’d have to listen.” 

“They don’t  _ have  _ to do anything,” Gina points out, her eyes straying downward to the faded white line of the parking space. She doesn’t want to admit EJ is right. Even if he and Ricky and Nini and Ashlyn and Seb and every other non-STEM teacher shows up in support of the arts, it will be easy to brush them off as biased. Or worse, trying to save their own skin. Their motives will be questioned. But if she shows up? And if others in science and math do? It would say a lot more. They have no motive. 

“Gi, we make a good team,” EJ says, blue-green eyes twinkling mischievously. He looks like a high schooler planning a rager while his parents are out of town. 

“We do,” she admits. 

“And we said that next time we’d use our powers for good.” 

“We did.” 

“So? I’m in. Are you?” 

“What about the others?” she hedges. “Nini and Ricky and all? Shouldn’t we talk to them first?” 

“Do you really think they’ll sit this one out?” he questions. 

“I’m just saying,” she defends. “There’s a lot at stake here. Mazzara could still fire us. I wouldn’t blame them for playing it safe.” 

“Pfft,” EJ answers. “And if he does fire us? We’ll just go somewhere else. There’s dozens of schools around here.” 

Gina sighs. She wants to point out that it isn’t that simple. EJ’s got a reputation as a legendary coach already. His dad is a city council member. His mom works for the state. Either one of them could pick up a phone and have a new job for him in a matter of minutes if he so much as asked. She doesn’t have that kind of pull. She’s barely got a foot in the door in Salt Lake City, and her situation is precarious enough that one misstep could send her back to the nomadic life of her childhood. 

“I’ll think about it,” she repeats, easing herself into the driver’s seat. “Just… Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime,” she says half-teasingly through the open window. 

EJ feigns offense. “Since when have I ever done anything stupid?” 

She glares at him with mock severity. “Good night, EJ,” she says, putting the car in gear and driving off. 

* * *

Nini unlocks the condo door and pushes it open, reaching behind her to clasp Ricky’s hand. It wasn’t even a question after that morning’s conversation. This is where he belongs, and it was a given that he would return here with her at the end of the day. So after school, they’d taken their separate cars and returned to their one home.

The air conditioning rushes forth to greet them, but the warmth that settles in her chest remains. She relishes in the normalcy of it. The way Ricky bends down to pry off his shoes and hang his key on the peg. The couch and the coffee table, the hanging light fixture in the dining room, the keyboard and the houseplants and the bed and the cabinets are the same. They’ve been the same since she’s moved in. But somehow Ricky’s presence in her home -  _ their  _ home, as she’s come to think of it - makes them all seem fresh and new. The condo feels more full. 

Ricky sighs as he lowers himself onto the sofa, reaching out to pull Nini down with him. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes her tight to his body, breathing in the scent of her lavender and honey conditioner. His apartment is technically still his home, in the sense that he receives mail there and he’s registered to vote there and it’s printed on his driver’s license. But, just as he’s known he’s loved Nini for far longer than he’s been willing to admit it, he’s known, too, that  _ this  _ is home. Nini in his arms is home. 

* * *

Dinner is a two-person affair. Neither of them is exactly Top Chef material, but Nini’s pretty proud of the number of serviceable meals they’ve put out since they started sharing her small kitchen, shuffling around one another and occasionally stealing a kiss. She’s learned that Ricky’s a messy cook: pots and pans everywhere, mysterious sauce splatters, flour in every corner and crevice. He never measures ingredients out like she does - with level measuring cups and spoons. He eyeballs it, and as maddening as his imprecision is, the fact that his results are undeniably good is even more maddening. 

Ricky lays the flat edge of the knife on top of a garlic clove and pounds it with his fist. The  _ thump  _ causes Nini to jump involuntarily and he can’t help but chuckle a little. 

“Jesus, Ricky,” she chides good-naturedly. “You’re supposed to crush the garlic, not obliterate it.” 

“Same thing,” he shrugs, pounding harder on the knife for emphasis. 

She tuts and lays a tomato down on the cutting board, delicately carving into it before dicing. “So I’m sure Devin approached you today,” she says, gently lifting the tomatoes and putting them into a bowl. 

Ricky finishes flattening the garlic and proceeds to use his knife to hack the remaining cloves to pieces, reducing them to paste. Nini sighs and reminds herself that it’s all going into the sauce anyway. “He did,” Ricky confirms. “I’m guessing Mariela told you about the revue?” 

She nods, rinsing her hands under the tap and filling a pot with water. She sets it to boil on the stove. “And that they want us to support it. What do you think about the whole thing?” 

He brings the ingredients over to the stove, setting a pan beside the pot of water. His hip bumps up against hers, and she has a sneaking suspicion that he’s doing it on purpose. Not that she minds. She’s spent enough time away from him. She’ll take any physical contact to remind herself that he’s really here, that he’s really staying, and that he really loves her.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Ricky says, heating the pan and throwing in some onions. They hit the pan with a sizzle, crackling and steaming as they cook. “Might as well, right? He’s already taken the musical from them and from us. What do you think?” 

Nini grabs a handful of pasta and gently lowers it into the boiling water. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I’m just afraid the kids will get in trouble. Or we will.” 

“Mazzara wouldn’t dare,” Ricky says, pouring in a can of crushed tomatoes and stirring rapidly. He reaches for the salt and the crushed red pepper, liberally dumping both into the sauce until Nini closes her hand around his wrist to stop him. He smiles self-deprecatingly, his arm going limp in her grip as he sets the spice shakers down. “Board meetings are public," he continues. "Anyone’s allowed to attend and comment. You have any idea how many parents would be up in arms if their kids got in trouble for voicing their opinions?” 

“It’s a little more than just voicing an opinion,” Nini counters. “Besides, Mazzara may not be able to fire the kids, but he can still fire us.”

“Fair point,” Ricky agrees, grabbing two plates from the cupboard and laying them on the counter. Nini heaps pasta on their plates and he ladles sauce over the top. “Look, I don’t know about you, Nini, but I’m ready to take a stand. I mean, no instruments? No equipment for repairs? No musical? How long before he just decides to cut the music program altogether? And if that happens, I’ll be out of a job anyway. May as well give ourselves a fighting chance, right? So what d’ya say? Are you in?” 

Nini’s eyes fall to the formica countertop. A droplet of sauce has spilled off Ricky’s plate and she dabs at it with a paper towel before it can set in. She looks back up at him and finds he’s staring intently at her, eyes pleading. 

“Neens,” he whispers, hands falling to her waist as he inches closer. “We need you,” he says. “ _ I  _ need you.” 

She bites her lip and finds herself unable to resist the look in his eyes. Even if she could, she wouldn’t want to. She swore to him that they were in this together, and she’ll stand by him now. For Ricky. For her kids. For herself, too. “I’m in,” she says softly.

“Yeah?” Ricky looks equal parts surprised and elated. 

“Yeah,” she grins. 

He squeezes her tighter, backing her up against the counter and nuzzling into her. “I love you,” he whispers without hesitation or reservations. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Late-night update. I've been working and reworking this chapter for a few days now, and could never quite nail the tone the way I wanted, but I think I've got it to a point where I'm happy so I'm posting it now before I get the urge to delete everything and hide in a hole. I hope you're all doing well or, failing that, at least alright. Moreover, I hope you're keeping healthy and safe. 
> 
> Thank you all for the support and comments and kudos and everything you do - you seriously make my day most days and it encourages me to keep writing, even when I'd rather erase the entire draft and start over endlessly. A Domestic Rini oneshot will hopefully be out sometime soon. It's shaping up to be SO MUCH longer than I intended but I doubt you'll complain about that lol. As a teaser, it involves apartment hunting, move-in day, and Ricky and EJ will definitely get a U-Haul truck stuck in a parking space at some point. 
> 
> Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Title this time is from "School of Rock" and it happens to be my favorite song off that soundtrack.


	12. History Has Its Eyes On You

Gina Porter is meticulous. She rises at five every morning, regardless of whether it’s a weekday or weekend. Fifteen minutes of yoga and stretches, a thirty minute run, and then a shower, followed by half a grapefruit or an apple with cottage cheese, plus a cup of black coffee for breakfast. A childhood of constant moves across state lines and time zones required discipline, and she learned early on to maintain a steady schedule. The consistency was key. It was the one thing she could control.

She’s just finished washing her mug when her phone vibrates on the countertop. A text from Ricky. She frowns. It’s six in the morning on a Saturday, and though she doesn’t know Ricky that well, she can’t see him being the type to get up this early unless he absolutely has to. She dries her hands and snatches up her phone, damp fingers smudging the screen slightly as her eyes pass over the message. It’s a group text including Nini, EJ, Ashlyn, Seb, Kourtney, and another number that she doesn’t have saved. 

_ So I’m pretty sure everyone knows about the revue at this point. We’re getting together at Nini’s at 6 tonight to talk about it. And yes, there will be food _

She goes to tap out a response, but Seb beats her to it. 

_ You had me at revue  _ and a starry-eyed emoji.

The unsaved number responds a moment later.  _ You had me at food.  _

Gina grins to herself and saves the number as Big Red. A surge pulses through her veins, feeling like a lightning strike. It heats her blood. She’s a part of this movement, and she can’t help but feel like East High history is about to be made.

* * *

“Ricky, can you give me a hand?” Nini calls from the living room. He enters to find her on her tiptoes, duster in hand, jumping to reach the top of the bookshelf. He can’t help but laugh as he takes it from her, stretching his arm to easily reach the top shelf. His grin is tauntingly smug. 

“I’m starting to think you only keep me around for my height,” he says, handing the duster back to her when he’s finished. 

“Not just your height,” she replies, plucking it from his hand and turning to find the next furniture item to attack. “You have other uses.”

He reaches out and spins her back around, pulling her closer to him. “Like what?” he murmurs lowly. 

She can feel herself starting to blush. It doesn’t take much effort on Ricky’s part to elicit this reaction from her, and she loves and loathes it in equal measure. “Let’s see,” she says, her tone light-hearted. “You can lift heavy boxes.” 

“Not too heavy, though,” he laughs. 

“You’re a good sous chef, plant-sitter, and karaoke partner. You always put my mug in the dishwasher when I forget. You iron clothes better than I do...” 

Ricky arches a brow, a sideways smirk breaking out across his features that makes her stomach do a flip. “So basically, I’m the ideal butler,” he says. 

She sobers quickly, her dark eyes boring into him. “You’re a lot more to me than that, Ricky,” she tells him. “A  _ lot  _ more.” 

He doesn’t know what to say. He never knows what to say when their playful banter inevitably turns serious. He never knows what to do when Nini gets that fierce look in her eye. It’s an intense look. A look that reminds him that he’s loved and that her eyes see past his flaws and imperfections. He’s never been able to replicate it, though he’s often tried to return the sentiment. Impulsively, he leans down and presses a kiss to her lips, then pulls back, smirking. 

It takes Nini a minute to recover her train of thought. “While I have you,” she says brightly, “Could you be a dear and wipe down the bathroom mirror?” 

Ricky chuckles. “It’s just our friends, Neens. And it’s not like we’re hosting a party.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Nini sniffs with mock severity. “I will not have this place looking like a wreck when they get here.” 

Ricky stifles a laugh. “Bathroom mirror. On it.” 

* * *

The condo is vacuumed and mopped to the point that the scratched wood floors gleam. All the windows are open, the early-autumn breeze rustling the gauzy curtains. The whole place smells like lemon Pledge. They place a pizza order - soy cheese and gluten free crust. Nini blows her hair dry and Ricky settles onto the couch with a stack of music theory worksheets to grade. The doorbell rings just as Nini emerges from the bedroom, wearing an East High hoodie.  _ His  _ East High hoodie. 

“Who is it?” she asks.

Ricky shrugs, rising from the sofa to answer the door. “Whoever it is, they’re like ten minutes early.” 

When he pulls the door open, EJ stands on the other side, smiling broadly. “Hey!” he greets, his voice a little overly enthusiastic. “I know I’m early. My bad. Kinda forgot how short the drive was.” 

It’s a sharp reminder that before Nini even knew Ricky existed, this condo was a space that she and EJ regularly shared. If EJ realizes it, he doesn’t let on. Ricky dismisses the thought. “No worries,” he says amiably, standing aside. “Come in!”

“EJ,” Nini greets, her shoulders just a little more tense than they should be. 

“Hey,” EJ replies, dipping his head slightly as he takes a baby step closer. He speaks in a library whisper, as if normal speaking volume might cause the room to implode. 

Ricky glances at his phone. “Neens, I gotta go get the pizza,” he says. 

“Oh,” Nini grins tightly, eyes flitting from Ricky to EJ. “Yeah. Okay!” She feels stupid for being this tense and awkward. Ricky can pick up on it, and she’s certain EJ can, too. The whole atmosphere in the house feels off. 

Ricky turns to EJ brightly. “Hey, wanna come with?” he asks, noting the relief on Nini’s face.

“Yeah, sure!” he answers cheerily, a little too quickly. All three of them exhale at once and the awkward air that has settled over the room dissipates just as quickly. “I’ll drive if you want,” he offers.

* * *

Ricky never contemplated EJ’s lifestyle much. He’s always imagined him to be the type of guy who carries around a gallon jug of water. The kind of guy whose car is littered with cups from the local smoothie place, streaks of protein powder still left in the bottom. The kind of guy whose entire closet consists of muscle tees and t-shirts with the sleeves cut off. He knew several guys like that in college. He and Big Red jokingly referred to them as the Frat Gods every time they invaded the rec center to take over the weight room. And while he’s never thought EJ was a bad person, until recently, he’d never really considered that EJ could be anything more than a slightly-older version of those Frat Gods. 

He hoists himself into the passenger seat of EJ’s Jeep and is surprised at how immaculate the interior is. There isn’t so much as a gum wrapper or a stray receipt anywhere to be found, unlike his own car, and aside from a duffle bag in the back seat and a Black Ice car freshener dangling from the rearview mirror, there’s very little to indicate anyone uses the vehicle at all.

EJ starts the car and the air conditioning comes on full-blast immediately. The radio kicks on and he recognizes the song instantly. 

_ All I do is sit and think about you  
_ _ If I knew what you'd do  
_ _ Collapse my veins wearing beautiful shoes  
_ _ It's not living if it's not with you _

EJ puts the car in gear and backs out of the space as Ricky fumbles for his seatbelt. “I didn’t know you listened to The 1975,” he says as the Jeep roars away from the development. 

“It’s a recent thing,” EJ answers, lowering the volume and putting his turn signal on. “We’re going to Vincenzo’s, right? It’s Nini’s favorite but I should’ve checked anyway.” 

“Yup,” Ricky replies, pursing his lips. They drive on in silence for a while, the rumble of off-road tires and the vibrations in the cabin filling the air between them. Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Ricky turns to EJ. “You know, the other day when you asked if I wanted to talk? I didn’t expect you to be so understanding,” he says.

EJ chuckles. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.” 

The silence settles over them once more and Ricky shifts in his seat, his pants swishing against the leather upholstery. The A/C continues to drone and EJ reaches for the volume control to turn the radio up once more. Ricky inhales. “So,” he says, shooting him a smile. EJ’s hand is arrested halfway to the volume dial. “Taking a ride with the legendary three-time back-to-back East High coach EJ Caswell. I think I’m supposed to be starstruck.” 

EJ’s laugh comes out more like a bark and Ricky gets the sense that he’d rather talk about anything else. “Anyway,” he changes the subject, “What do you do on your days off?” 

The gym teacher chuckles. “Honestly? I go running.” 

“Seriously?” He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that someone as athletic as EJ considers running a hobby.

“Yeah. I try to do at least five or six miles on weekends. More if my leg isn’t acting up.” 

“Acting up?” Ricky repeats.

“Old injury,” he shrugs it off like it’s nothing.

“You seriously just go running for fun?” 

“Yeah! Really clears the mind, you know? Just put some headphones in and go. Nowhere to be, no time limit to get there. It’s just you, your breathing, and the road in front of you, and if you’re running fast enough, your problems can’t keep up. There’s nothing like it. You’re just... free,” EJ sighs wistfully. “You should join me sometime.” 

Ricky turns it over in his mind. The way EJ talks about running is the same way he talks about music. The freedom that EJ feels when his sneakers pound the pavement is the same freedom he feels when he’s strumming chords. “I’ll think about it,” he says, and he means it.

“What about you?” EJ asks. “What do you do for fun?” 

Ricky snorts. “Music, mostly.” 

“What, like jamming out?” 

“Something like that,” he answers. “I write songs, too.” 

“Huh,” EJ nods, impressed. He pilots the car into a parking space in front of the pizzeria and kills the motor. “You’ll have to play something for me one day.” 

“Maybe when I finally finish something good,” Ricky laughs, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door. 

“Nah. C’mon,” EJ insists. “I’m sure it’s all good.” 

Five minutes later, they’re back on the road. The pizza boxes slide around precariously on the back seat and the entire car is filled with the scent of dough and cheese. For the third time, a silence settles over them but it feels less tense than before.

EJ is the first to break the silence this time. “So, uh… You and Nini…? I mean, obviously you guys are all good, right? Since you’re back at her place and all?” 

“Yeah,” Ricky grins easily. “Yeah, we’re all good. I took your advice, you know? A grand gesture to show I’ve been paying attention.” 

“Oh yeah? What’d you do?” 

“I made a list,” he declares proudly. “Of all the things I love about Nini. And I told her everything.”

EJ’s eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, but his expression softens. “I’m glad you did, Ricky. I’m glad it worked out.” 

“I was surprised that you even gave me advice,” he confesses. “You could’ve just said it wasn’t your problem. Or even sabotaged me.” 

“Yeah,” EJ answers. “Well, I’ve come to see that things are much better when we support each other instead of trying to get in each other’s way.”

“EJ,” Ricky smiles from the passenger seat, “I think we’re on our way to a beautiful friendship.”

He laughs as he changes lanes. “Well that depends.” 

“Depends on…?” 

“Broncos or Packers.” 

Ricky winces. “Football’s not really my thing. But my dad lives in Denver so I gotta go Broncos.” 

“Ooh, wrong answer,” EJ says regretfully. “But I’ll give you a shot at redemption. Jazz or Bulls?” 

“Are you kidding? Jazz all day,” Ricky says. “I may have moved to Chicago but I still grew up in Utah.” 

“Good man,” EJ says. 

“And no matter what, Lakers suck,” Ricky throws in. 

“Not bad, Bowen. I think maybe we can be friends after all,” EJ hazards a brief glance at his passenger and smiles back at him. 

“You know,” Ricky begins. “When I was a kid - before my parents divorced, back when we still lived in Ogden - my dad used to take me to Jazz games all the time.”

“No way!” EJ replies. “My dad used to do the same before he ran for city council.” 

“Dude, you know what that means?” Ricky says. “We might’ve been at the same game.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” EJ chuckles.

Ricky shakes his head. “Small world. We could’ve been sitting right next to each other and never known it.” He likes the idea, and he chooses to believe that he and EJ really were at the same game once. Perhaps they were a row apart, even. He likes the idea that they’ve crossed paths before. Sort of like a preview for a coming attraction. It would mean he’s been connected to East High, to Nini and to Ashlyn and Seb and Big Red and Kourtney, for far longer than he’s known. It would be yet another example of the universe having a plan. 

* * *

Nini answers the door and finds Gina on the other side. She greets her warmly and steps aside to let her pass. 

“Is this the first time I’ve been to your place?” she asks, standing in the entryway and glancing around the condo. 

“Think so,” Nini says, coming up behind her. 

Gina turns to her. “It’s nice,” she says, eyes raking over the abstract artwork on the walls, the houseplant, and the soft, white throw pillows. “Cozy,” she adds. The space feels warm. Her studio is a new construction, filled with stark, sterile black-and-white tones, finished in stainless steel and highly reflective glass. She’d been drawn by the fact that no one had lived there before her. It was a chance to make her mark, to claim a place as her own. But she has to admit that Nini’s place - the full feeling that it exudes - makes her wonder if she’s been missing out. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Nini offers. “Water or… Well, actually, that’s about it until Ricky and EJ get back with the pizza and drinks.” 

“Water’s fine,” Gina laughs, following her into the kitchen. Nini grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it from the Brita pitcher on the counter. “So,” Gina says, accepting the glass from Nini. “If you and Ricky are co-hosting a rebellion -”

“It’s not a rebellion!” Nini interrupts. 

“A meeting,” she corrects with an indulgent smile. “Does that mean you two are…?” 

Nini’s face brightens into a grin. “Yes,” she says, and Gina momentarily expects her to swoon with the exultation. “We’re good.” 

Gina brings the glass to her lips, hiding her smile behind the rim. “Well? Don’t just leave me hanging. Tell me!” She takes a sip.

“He said he loves me,” Nini practically squeals, and Gina swallows quickly to avoid an impromptu spit take in the middle of the kitchen. She clasps Nini’s hands. 

“He just said it? Just like that?” 

“Well, he actually said ‘I think...I kinda...you know…’ and there was a whole speech that went with it, but it ended with him saying ‘I love you,’” Nini says shyly. “I went to apologize for putting him on the spot and to tell him that it’s okay if he needs more time, and he started telling me all the little things he knows about me that makes him love me and then he just… He said it, Gi! He really said it!” 

“Well it’s about damn time!” Gina laughs, releasing Nini’s hands. “Seriously, I’m really happy for the both of you.” 

“Thanks for your advice the other night,” Nini replies. “I don’t know if I’d have handled it as well if you and Ash and Kourtney hadn’t been there to help talk me through it.” 

“What are friends for?” Gina shrugs. 

* * *

“This is a familiar scene,” Ashlyn jokes, glancing around the living room at the circle of faces once they've all settled in with their food. 

“Yeah, it’s almost like we just did this in the parking lot or something,” Seb adds.

Big Red looks blankly at Ricky. “Okay, I’m lost.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ricky reassures him. “It’s not important. What is important is that we have a plan. Sort of. We were all approached by our students yesterday to talk about the revue, except for Big Red and Kourtney for obvious reasons. Right?” 

Nini, EJ, and Gina nod vigorously. 

“Some of my dance students came to me at the end of the day,” Seb confirms. 

“And a few members of the art club brought it up during our meeting yesterday,” Ashlyn adds. 

EJ raises his hand. “Okay, don’t hate me but I’m a little confused. What exactly is a revue?” 

“It’s like a show,” Seb says helpfully. “Except instead of telling one story, it’s a bunch of skits and musical numbers.” 

Ricky nods. “A group of students want to stage a revue at the next board meeting as a protest. And they’ve asked for our help to do it.”

“We wanted to hear your thoughts,” Nini puts in. 

“I think it’s a good idea,” Ashlyn says carefully. “But we need to be careful. The kids have to be the ones to lead this. We can’t. It’s not our place, and if Mazzara thinks for even a second that we put them up to it, it’ll invalidate the whole movement. He’ll just fire us and claim we coerced the students into protesting. If the kids lead this, the board will have no choice but to take them seriously.” 

“I think we should participate, though,” Ricky says. “If we get as many teachers as we can to testify during the public comments, they’ll see that the arts matter to the whole school community - students and teachers. I feel like it’ll be a lot harder to ignore.” 

“That’s if we can get enough turnout,” Nini points out. “I don’t know how many people are actually gonna show up for something like this, though. What if it’s just us and the drama club?” 

“Then it’s just us and the drama club,” Ricky answers, looking around the circle meaningfully. “But they will come. I mean, everyone’s been touched by the arts in some way or another, right? We all listen to music. We all watch movies. We all read books. If anything’s going to unite the school, it’s this.” 

“Ricky’s right,” EJ says. “Some of my players are interested in helping. I’m sure they can get the rest of the team onboard, and probably other athletes, too.” 

“And I’ve got robotics club members ready to help out, too,” Gina says. “So looks like we have athletes and mathletes.” 

Ricky pauses, then asks haltingly, “I’m in. Who’s with me?” 

“I’m in,” Nini says immediately. 

“Me, too,” EJ says. 

“Me, three!” Big Red announces. 

Gina, Kourtney, and Seb declare their support. Ashlyn smiles. “In for a penny, right? I’m with you.” 

Ricky’s smile is triumphant, as if he’s already won this battle. “Perfect,” he exults. “Okay, so here’s the game plan,” he continues without missing a beat. He’s already gamed out the possibilities. He’s already calculated the risks. “The kids are leading this, but they’ll need help, right? We’re teachers. Mostly. So that’s where we come in. We guide them and we help them pull this off. It’s what we do every day. I can help with music.” 

“I’ll work with them on speeches,” Nini offers. “Or skits.”

Ashlyn grins, rubbing her hands together. “I smell a great opportunity to teach my kids about tyranny.”

“And I’ll round up as many basketball players as I can to help,” EJ says. 

Gina stares at the ground pensively, resting her chin in one hand. “The board meeting’s in the cafeteria,” she muses aloud. “Same place the robotics club meets. I wonder if we might be able to figure out a way to rig the cafeteria ahead of time. We could set up some kind of rolling platform to use as a stage and hook up all the sound equipment…” 

Seb smiles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “My seniors are supposed to choreographing their own original pieces. I wonder if some of them would like to perform them at the revue.” 

“And I’ve got you on all your clothing and costume needs,” Kourtney says.

“We’ll need a place to practice,” Ashlyn points out. “Somewhere outside of school, preferably. Less chance of getting caught.” 

Big Red smiles knowingly. “Skate shop closes at seven,” he suggests. “I’ll provide snacks.” 

“You guys… Are we really doing this?” Nini asks, looking from face to face. Her expression is a mix of wild-eyed giddiness and trepidation. 

Big Red raises his pizza slice. “Here’s to the rebellion, baby!” 

“No,” Ricky corrects, raising his slice, too. “Here’s to the underdogs. The  _ ultimate  _ underdogs!” 

Seb’s phone begins to chime a three-note tone. He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, his smile broadening. 

“Who is it?” Nini glances over at the screen.

“A surprise guest,” Seb answers mysteriously, answering the FaceTime call. “A surprise,  _ fashionably late  _ guest.” He angles the phone toward the group, revealing Carlos on the other side. His hair is immaculately quiffed and he beams at them all from behind his clear-rimmed glasses. 

“Carlos!” Nini cries, practically snatching the phone from Seb.

“Heard you were planning a little revue-lution,” he says. “I’m a sucker for a good rebellion. It’s the hallmark of all good art, after all.  _ Les Mis _ ,  _ Wicked _ ,  _ Newsies _ , hell, even  _ Hairspray _ . So listen, I know there isn’t much I can do from literally the other side of the country, but if you need me, I’m here. And I’m working on a little project of my own in case this doesn’t work out. Break a leg, guys! On second thought, break Mazzara’s leg. I’ve never met him and I’m already over him.” 

* * *

It’s well past nightfall by the time the pizza is finished and the group starts to filter out of the condo. “So if we’re serious about participating, I think it would be good for us all to prepare performances ahead of time,” Ricky advises. “So go home, think about how the arts have impacted you, and if you want my help with anything, let me know.” 

Kourtney is the last to leave.

“Thank you,” Nini whispers, hugging her best friend tight. 

“I got your back, girl,” she answers easily, one hand poised on the door knob. Her gaze falls on Ricky. “Yours, too.” With that, she departs, returning to her own home next door. Ricky shuts the door behind her. 

“You ready for this?” he asks, turning to Nini and taking her hand. 

She smiles and nods. “I’m ready.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long and exhausting week, guys. Those of us in the US, I'm sure, will understand. And while the stakes are decidedly lower in this fictional universe, what better time to talk about a revolution, right? Anyway, I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter and where we're headed. Can you believe we're already past the halfway point of the story? 
> 
> Chapter title from Hamilton, of course. I'm so excited to share what comes next with you, as well as that oneshot that I'm still making steady progress on. Stay safe everyone!


	13. Seasons Of Love

Ricky’s phone vibrates rapidly against the coffee table, startling him and Nini. She drops her book and he lets the paper he’s grading fall to his lap as they both lean over to look at the screen. His heart shoots to his throat as his mother’s name appears, and he reaches immediately for the phone. Nini’s hand closes around his wrist, arresting his progress. He turns to look at her, mouth half-open. The look she gives him is meaningful, deliberate, and the way she tightens her grip for a moment before letting his hand go says all he needs to hear.  _ I’m here for you. I’m with you.  _

He snatches the phone off the table and answers it. “Mom?” He momentarily debates retreating to the bedroom, but he needs Nini to be here for this. He needs to feel her sitting beside him, grounding him to reality no matter which way this goes. 

“Sweetie? Is now a good time?” 

A lump forms in his throat, threatening to choke his voice. He swallows it. “Y-yeah. What’s up?” 

Nini reaches over, closing a soft, comforting hand over his shoulder. 

“I was able to get an earlier mammogram appointment,” his mother tells him, “And the results came back.” His breath hitches. He has to remind himself to breathe. 

Nini can hear Lynne’s voice on the other side of the phone. She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, her hand rubbing circles on Ricky’s shoulder as she contemplates what she will say to him if the news is bad. What can she say?  _ I love you. I love you. I love you, Ricky, and I will be here for you.  _

“W-what did they say?” Ricky asks. His voice is impossibly small, and he feels like a child again, standing in his parents’ bedroom doorway after they’ve had a fight, begging his mom not to be mad at his dad anymore or vice versa. 

Lynne inhales. “The mammogram doesn’t show anything unusual,” she says, her voice measured.

The flood of tears that he’s been holding back for days presses at his eyes, threatening to burst forth, but he manages to hold it together long enough to ask, “So is that it? There’s no cancer?” 

“We aren’t quite out of the woods yet,” Lynne sighs gently. “But it’s a very good sign. My doctor just wants to do an ultrasound to confirm.” 

“Oh.” His voice is forlorn, his expression wilting. 

“Ricky,” his mother says, “I know you’re worried. I’m worried, too. But this is a good sign. Remember that. One way or another, everything’s going to be fine.” 

His heart skips a beat. The last time she promised him this was right before he moved to Chicago with her. Right before her new-old lover showed up at the airport to retrieve them. And his first instinct is to seize on the remembered anger that bubbles up from the pit of his stomach. He draws a breath in, and shakily releases it along with the first of his tears. 

“You’ll call me when you get an update?” he asks. His voice is tight, an octave higher than usual.

“Of course,” she replies, and he can picture her soft smile on the other side of the line. 

“Thanks,” he answers shakily. There is a long pause before he adds, “I love you, Mom.” 

He can hear her breath hitch on the other end of the line. “I love you too, Ricky,” she says, her voice warm and thick. 

They leave it at that, and when he hangs up the phone, he turns to Nini and breaks immediately, falling into her lap as his body shakes with sobs. Her hands rub circles on his shoulders, his back. She presses soft, tender kisses to his head, his cheek, to any part of him she can reach as she blinks back her own tears and curls toward him, wrapping his body with hers. Her warmth envelops him, and with a final, shuddering breath, he sniffles and hazards a glance up at her. Her face is blurry through the film of tears that have tangled in his eyelashes, but he feels the familiar relief that floods his veins whenever he lays eyes on Nini. 

“She’s going to be fine, Ricky,” Nini tells him, and something about the conviction in her voice - small but steely - makes him believe it. 

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and strangled. 

Nini’s lip trembles, but the smile that spreads across her face is natural and radiant. “I love you, too,” she tells him. 

He swallows thickly and lets out a shaky exhale. Nini’s fingers tangle in his hair, massaging his scalp. His mother’s words echo in his mind.  _ We aren’t quite out of the woods, yet _ . But the doubt grows smaller and smaller, replaced instead by Nini’s gentle, firm reminder.  _ She’s going to be fine, Ricky _ . 

But even if his mom will be fine - and she will be fine, he reminds himself - one close call is enough. It’s a reminder. A wake-up call. A violent shake of his thoughts. His parents won’t be around forever, and he’s already spent too long hating them. He’s spent too long withholding his love from them as some form of revenge. He’s spent too long wanting his rejection to hurt, hoping that it stung them as much as their divorce stung him. It occurs to him that he could have lost either of them at any point. He could still lose them - or anyone in his life - at any point. He loves his mom. He loves his dad. He loves Nini and Big Red and Seb and Ashlyn and Kourtney and Carlos and EJ and Gina. And he is suddenly filled with the urgent, ardent desire to tell them this. To let them know how truly, deeply, and fully he loves them. 

He looks up at Nini, and he’s sure he looks like a mess: eyes puffy and red, hair askew, upper lip streaked with snot. But he smiles anyway. Bright and full and sincere. He holds her gaze. “I love you,” he says again.

They fall asleep on the couch that night, with all the lights on. They don’t mean to, but the warmth of their bodies pressed together and the relieved exhaustion that sets in after his mother’s call overtakes them. Ricky doesn’t dream that night, and it’s the most fitful sleep he’s had in weeks. 

* * *

Ricky is the first to wake, just as sunlight starts to filter in through the open curtains. Nini’s hair is in his face, tickling the tip of his nose, and he lets out a content sigh as he tucks a dark lock behind her ear. She stirs, eyes blinking open. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice deep from sleep. 

“Good morning,” she sighs, sitting up slowly. There’s a crick in her neck and she groans inwardly when she realizes they left the lights on all night, but she doesn’t regret it. 

For a moment, he wants to pull her back towards him. He wants to feel her warmth against him, and he wants to hold her close and bask in the feeling. But there are still dishes to clean and things to do, and he’s not sure his back can take another few hours on the sofa anyway. Nini sits pensively on the end of the couch, eyes searching the pattern in the rug. 

“What’cha thinking about, lover?” he asks gently. 

Nini shakes her head and turns to face him. “Just… I realized that this time last year, we had just started rehearsals for the musical.” 

“And now we’re planning a revue,” he shrugs, eyes twinkling. 

“Ricky, we’ve been in each other’s lives for a year. Can you believe it?” she asks.

“Is it bad if I say I can’t?” Ricky asks, inching closer and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Because honestly, Nini? I feel like I’ve known you forever. And at the same time, I feel like I blinked and it’s already been a year. When I’m with you, it’s like nothing else matters. Not time, not Mazzara canceling the musical, not my mom’s health scare...”

Nini leans into him, pressing herself against his side. The blush that rises in her cheeks is familiar by now. “I feel the same way,” she tells him. “And more than that, Ricky, you make me feel safe. You make me feel like I can speak up and  _ do  _ things. I’m not afraid of my own voice with you.” 

His eyes are warm and soft, and he kisses the top of her head tenderly. “There’s nobody else I’d rather have at my side when we take on Mazzara and the board,” he says. 

* * *

The midday sun is bright and persistent, streaming through the window as Nini pads into the living room, her hair still damp from the shower. Ricky sits on the piano bench, facing toward her with his guitar in his lap as he strums the same four chords he’s been toying with for weeks. G, D, E minor, C. She likes the way it sounds. Light, breezy, a little Jason Mraz-esque. She sits down on the bench beside him, the scent of her vanilla body wash perfuming the air. 

“Making progress?” she asks softly when he stops strumming.

He turns to face her, shifting the guitar. “Not yet,” he sighs, then brightens. “But you know what might help? Some lyrics.” He turns hopeful eyes toward her and she finds herself unable to refuse him even if she wanted to. The truth is, he’s been messing with this tune for a while now, and she’s been playing with lyrics to go with it for just as long.

“Play it again for me,” she requests, sliding over to give him more room. 

He brings his guitar back over his lap and proceeds to strum the same chords repeatedly. G, D, E minor, C. G, D, E minor, C. G, D, E minor, C. On the fourth pass, she starts to sing the first words that come to her mind.

“So much has happened, think of what we’ve done…” 

He stops, astonished. “That’s it!” he exclaims excitedly, reaching for his notebook. 

“What’s it? It was literally one line,” she protests, but he’s already jotting the words down in his messy, slanted hand. When he finishes, he picks up the guitar and plays once more. 

“So much has happened, think of what we’ve done,” she begins again, slowing as she reaches the end of the line. He slows his strumming to match her. “...In the time that the earth has traveled ‘round the sun!” 

“Yes!” Ricky exclaims. “It’s perfect!”

“Keep playing, I’m on a roll,” she urges, feeling her heart surge. She’s always written lyrics this way: in short bursts when inspiration strikes. But since she started writing songs with Ricky, inspiration seems to strike far more often. He obeys without question, continuing the verse. It takes a few more repetitions before she works out the next lines.

“From the minute we kissed and my heart skipped a beat to the night that we danced, I was swept off my feet… Sure as every year has to come to an end…” she pauses and glances over at Ricky, only to find his eyes have never left her. He’s been playing this whole time without once looking away, and the wonder in his eyes sends her heart soaring. He strums gently and she holds his gaze.

“Sure as every year has to come to an end, I’d go spinning ‘round the sun with you again and again and again and again,” she repeats until she runs out of air and he stops playing.

“Do you mean it?” he asks softly when the guitar strings have stopped vibrating. 

“Mean what?” 

“That you’d go spinning around the sun with me again?” 

Nini laughs, leans over, and kisses him gently, one hand cupping his cheek. “Yes, Ricky,” she says. “I would go spinning around the sun with you again and again and again and again.” 

He reddens slightly and the way he blushes compels her to kiss him again and again, just to see how red he’ll turn.

“So that’s a verse,” he says when she finally pulls away, touching her forehead to his. His voice is rough and his pupils are wide. 

“I might have a chorus in me, too,” she tells him coquettishly, leaning back so that he can write in the book. “I’m feeling inspired.” 

Ricky clears his throat and adjusts the guitar in his lap, then plays through the chorus once. When he finishes, he looks to her for approval.

“Keep going,” she says, her eyes fluttering shut as he plays the same notes, repeating them over and over without needing to be asked. She listens for a few repetitions, then finally opens her eyes and smirks slyly at him. “I think I kinda, you know…” she croons softly.

Ricky stops playing and looks at her sheepishly, his expression caught between a smile and an embarrassed grimace. “Guess I’m never living that one down, huh?” 

Nini laughs, her hand gently closing around his wrist. “It’s not like that,” she reassures him. “I think it’s sweet!” 

“You do?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “You know how some couples have a sign or a phrase that means I love you? I guess ours is I think I kinda, you know.” 

He ponders it for a moment, an awe-struck smile slowly spreading across his face as he starts the chorus over. 

“I think I kinda, you know,” Nini repeats. “I think I kinda, you know… Like the way that we flow. Like the way that we go. And I love,” she holds up a finger for emphasis, “I think I kinda, you know.” She taps him lightly on the nose and giggles when he scrunches his face up in response.

Ricky jots the newly-formed chorus down in his notes. “Babe, you’re a lyric  _ goddess _ ,” he declares. 

She shrugs modestly. “I’ve got a pretty talented composer to help me out.” 

“You know, I didn’t plan for this to be a love song when I started writing it. I guess it’s impossible to write anything else when I’m around you.” 

She tries to ignore the blush the creeps steadily from her neck to her cheeks. “It’s your turn,” she says.

“My turn?” 

Nini nods. “I said what I wanted to say in the first verse. Now it’s your turn.” 

He nods, his eyes fixing themselves on a point on the floor as he taps his foot, humming the verse softly. It’s his process. She’s seen it enough times to know. He zones out when he’s writing songs, and while she has to speak lyrics out loud to figure out if they work, he rarely utters a word until he’s worked everything out in his head. She watches him for the better part of fifteen minutes, listening to the easy way he hums the verse over and over. She could watch him do this forever. She swears she can see the gears turning in his mind as he sways slightly, deep in thought. 

Finally, he looks up. “Alright, I’ve got it.” He strums a chord to refresh himself and then launches into the verse, angling his body toward her so that he’s no longer just playing the song. He’s playing it for her.

“Sometimes you know exactly what to say, then you open your mouth and the words go away.” His smile broadens, his eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughs. “Don’t want you to wonder, or to doubt or guess, so let me tell you clearly what I’m trying to express. It’s just three little words. Yeah, it’s not a big deal. It’s not like I can help feeling all that I feel. And by now, I’m sure you’re thinking it’s so obvious. But just in case it’s not, what I’m saying is this…” he gives her a nod of encouragement and continues straight into the chorus. She joins him, harmonizing. 

“This might be the first song we’ve ever finished writing together,” Nini declares when they stop. 

“It’s not quite finished yet,” Ricky responds. 

She frowns. “What’s missing?” 

“A bridge.” 

“I’ve never been great at building bridges.”

Ricky answers by strumming another chord and singing, “Can’t help dreaming of you…” He trails off, mouth partially open, fingers still poised above the frets as he waits expectantly.

“...Guess I’m saying I don’t  _ not  _ love you,” she grins, leaning into him.

He frowns. “Hey!” he whines. 

“It’s a double negative, Ricky,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Double negatives make a positive. So I’m saying I  _ do  _ love you. You forget you’re dating an English teacher.”

“When you sing like that, I sort of forget everything else,” he answers smoothly, and though his smile is taunting, his eyes are sincere. Ricky Bowen somehow has the ability to reduce her to a giddy schoolgirl with a few words and a well-placed grin, and she loves and hates it in equal measure.

He strums the guitar once more, humming a few notes and then vocalizing as he leans in toward her. “You know, you know, you know…” 

“I think I kinda, you know, Ricky Bowen,” Nini tells him when the last chord fades out. 

He laughs self-deprecatingly. “I love you, too, Nini Salazar-Roberts,” he says, earnest and flat-out, because he loves Nini and he loves telling her. 

“I’m glad that the musical brought us together a year ago,” she confesses. 

“Me, too,” he agrees, leaning forward and pressing his lips against hers. 

The kiss is slow and luxurious, their lips sliding against each other and then melting together. He kisses her like he has all the time in the world, like there could be no better use of time at all. She kisses him like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be than beside him, her hands framing his face as she pulls him closer to her. 

* * *

Later, they lie on the bed facing each other, Ricky’s finger tracing a lazy line from her leg to her hip to the ticklish spot on her side. He revels in the goosebumps that rise against her skin and the way her eyelids flutter shut. The revelation that strikes him in that moment is startling both in its quietness and its intensity.  _ This  _ is what he’s fighting for. This woman, lying beside him, who is warm and gentle and solid and determined and real and breathtaking. This bedroom, surrounded in softness: soft pillows, soft colors, soft light. This feeling of safety, of security, of  _ home _ . None of it would be possible without a million and one coincidences and perfectly-aligned moments that begin and end on the stage of a high school auditorium. And he knows, too, that this same sense of home that he’s found in Nini and in his friends is shared by his students. That stage and that theater - that’s their safe place. And he’s fighting for that, too. 

* * *

Nini sits at her desk, the lamp set to the highest setting and illuminating pages of sheet music. She stares at the blank paper in front of her, eyes raking over the sheet over and over until the littlest imperfections stand out against the white background. Ricky moves gently in and out of the room, fixing the comforter and bringing her a mug of tea. Gentle reminders that he’s here, and that she need only reach out to feel him. 

It’s ironic, she thinks, that she can’t find the words. The pen is uncapped and ready, the sentiments built up in her mind, and yet somehow the words fail her. Or perhaps the words don’t exist at all. Because how can she sum up everything the theater has meant to her? How can she convey that it’s more than some silly musical? That this stage has gifted her a family. It’s gifted her love. It’s gifted her growth. It’s gifted her a purpose. This stage is itself a gift, and she’s certain that if she can find the right string of words and phrases, she can convey this to Mazzara and he, too, will see the indispensable nature of the arts.

* * *

Gina lets out a shaky exhale as she eases herself into her chair, the white leather cool against her legs. She stares down at her phone, thumb poised above her mother’s name. The contact photo is years old by now, a selfie taken at Busch Gardens when her mom lived in Washington, D.C. for a few months. She should update it, she thinks. She should book a ticket out to Kansas - or is she in Oklahoma now? - during winter break and take a new photo with her mother. She pushes the call button before she means to, and the ringing on the other line startles her. One ring. Two rings. Three.

“Hello?” Her mother’s voice is rich and smiling. 

“Mom?” Gina peeps. 

“Hi, sweetheart!” She sounds elated and relieved. “You know, I was just thinking about giving you a call. What’s going on? How are you?” 

Gina smiles so widely that she wonders if her face might get stuck that way. “I’m good, Mom!”

“That’s wonderful. Did you get the poster I mailed you? I saw it at Target and thought it would be perfect! I told the lady at the checkout that I was sending it to my daughter because she’s a math teacher.” 

“I got it,” she laughs. Her mother’s always been able to start a conversation with strangers over anything at all. “I hung it up on the first day. Right in the front of my classroom.” She sobers, her smile fading, and she knits her brows for a moment before continuing. “But actually, Mom, I called because I need advice. Or guidance. Or...something.” 

“Anything,” her mother replies readily. 

“I’m about to do something. And I think it’s the right thing to do. But I might get into serious trouble for doing it. So I guess I’m just wondering if it’s the right choice.” 

The line goes silent for a moment, and then her mother lets out a soft, trembling exhale. “Gina,” she says gently. “If you think that it’s the right thing to do, then sweetheart, you have no choice and you should fear no consequences. Truth and justice have a way of shining through the darkness. I raised you to be a woman who stands up for truth, who stands up for justice. And you calling to tell me this? Well, I think I must be the proudest mother in the universe. I’m proud of you. So proud of you, Gina. I don’t say it enough, but I am proud of everything you’ve accomplished and prouder still of the woman you’ve become. You are strong. You are a fighter. And I know that you’ll fight for what’s right.” 

Gina shudders and tries to stifle the cry that wells up in her throat and squeaks past her lips. Her eyes well up and her face quickly grows wet with tears. Her mother is the strongest person she knows. A woman who has no qualms about standing up for truth and justice. A woman who runs headfirst into disaster zones while everyone else is running in the opposite direction. A woman who has uncomplainingly uprooted her life again and again to heed the call of those in need, and who still found the time to raise her on her own. To feed her and do the laundry and drive her to dance classes and help her with her homework and hug her when she had a bad day. Her mother is a superhero, and she realizes now that all along, she’s been preparing her to be one, too. The nomadic lifestyle she resented for so long has given her a backbone of steel. The constant proximity to disaster has made her sensitive. The years spent trying to fit in, trying to adapt to an ever-changing environment has made her willing and able to fight for what she believes in. 

So this fight to save not just the musical, but an important piece of the school she calls home, is more than just a protest. It’s more than just a revue. It’s more than just some kids putting on a song and dance. It’s the final test in a class she’s been taking her entire life. 

“I love you, Mom,” she breathes, and the silence that follows makes her wonder if she didn’t speak loudly enough at all. 

And then, her mother’s voice, honey-warm and reassuring, pours forth. “I love you too, Gina. So, so much.” 

When she hangs up the call, she lets the phone clatter to her desk facedown and wipes her eyes with the heels of her hands. She looks up at the corkboard hanging above the desk, ignoring the calendar and the Post-It notes that remind her to schedule a dentist appointment, to pick up more vitamins at the pharmacy. Her eyes wander to the pictures that run along the perimeter. A photo off Ashlyn’s Instagram that she screenshot and printed out on computer paper, depicting her and Ashlyn and Nini at a restaurant in LA, wine-drunk and glassy-eyed. The one picture that exists of all of them during last year’s musical: Ricky and Nini and EJ and Gina and Ash and Kourtney and Big Red and Seb, all backstage in a circle before the curtain lifted. The photos from Ashlyn’s housewarming, which the redhead had carefully printed and tucked into an ivory-colored envelope marked delicately with her name: Nini and Kourtney and Ashlyn and her, all squeezing into frame on Ashlyn’s couch. Ricky leaning over the back of the sofa, arms wrapped around Nini as she rests a hand against his cheek, her other arm wrapped around Gina’s shoulder while Seb flanks her other side. Their best funny faces, which somehow look even more ridiculous now.

These people, once passive fixtures in her day, are more than just her friends now. They are her family. She looks around the apartment, at the dark walls and the white wood floors and the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Utah mountains. It’s the home she’s always dreamed of, and she knows that if she sets foot into that board meeting, if she opens her mouth to speak, it could all be ripped away. She runs her finger along the glossy edge of the group shot at Ashlyn’s house and feels her heartbeat quicken. This apartment is just a house. That school is just a building. But the people in this photograph? That’s home. And wherever she goes, as long as they are in her life, she will always be home. 

Her mother is right, she decides. This is the right thing to do, and so there isn’t a choice at all. This fight may not affect her, but it affects her friends. It affects her family. And so it is her fight, too. She smiles at the faces in the photograph and traces her thumb over it once more for good luck.

* * *

Ashlyn leads EJ into the kitchen and sets a glass of water in front of him. “Thanks,” he murmurs, taking a sip. “Hey, uh, no one else is home, right?”

“EJ,” she looks at him incredulously. “We’re in  _ my  _ house. I live alone.” 

“Right, right,” he shakes his head and picks up the glass again. “Just...not sure if I want an audience yet.” 

“Thank you?” 

“You know what I mean,” he says. “I’m not a singer.” 

She laughs. “You don’t have to be a singer,” she says. “You don’t even have to be good to get your message across,” she adds brightly.

“Thank you?” he parrots. 

“You know what I mean,” she rolls her eyes. “The point is, just sing from the heart. Now have you thought about what you’re even going to perform?” 

“No idea,” EJ sighs. “I know everyone’s going for a show-tune theme but my knowledge of theater basically begins and ends with  _ High School Musical _ .” 

Ashlyn nods slowly. “Okay… I think we can work with that. How’s your dancing?” 

He shoots her a look and she chuckles. “Kidding! Mostly. I’ll let Seb deal with that.” 

* * *

She sits at the piano and fumbles with her iPad for a few moments before pulling up sheet music while he reads the lyrics off his phone. They test three different songs out, but he winces each time his voice cracks or he hits a sour note and makes her start over. 

“EJ,” she finally says after their fifth restart of the same song, “this is practice. Our  _ first  _ practice. You don’t need to be perfect at it.” 

“Yeah, but if I let myself suck at it, I’ll never get better,” he counters.

She bangs her fingers on the keys, the discordant sound ringing through the living room as she swivels around on the piano bench to face him. “Is that how you talk to your players?” she questions, her voice stern. 

“No,” he concedes.

“No, exactly,” she replies. “When you get a player that doesn’t know what to do, how do you teach them?” 

“I show them,” he mumbles. “And then I work with them one-on-one. I help them practice and I make adjustments as-needed until they nail it.” 

“And it doesn’t happen in one day, does it?” 

“No,” he grumbles. 

She nods and locks eyes meaningfully with her cousin. “You don’t have to have all the answers, EJ. I know you’re used to being the coach and being the one everyone looks to for guidance. But it’s okay to let yourself be a student, too. It’s okay not to know.” 

His expression softens into a smile. “Sure thing, Coach.” 

She returns his smile. “Hey, no one said you’re the only Coach Caswell in the family. Let’s run it again.” She turns around and positions her fingers on the piano keys, and he lets her play through even though he trips over a few words and messes up more than a few notes. 

“How was that?” he asks nervously when they’ve finally finished. 

“There was...a lot to admire,” Ashlyn answers carefully. 

“It sucked,” he sighs. “I suck. You know what? Maybe I can just, like, help you guys set up or something. I can’t do this.” 

“Yet,” she adds, her voice even. 

“Huh?” 

“You can’t do this...yet. One little word but it makes a huge difference.”

“How so?” 

“It’s called growth mindset. If you say you can’t do it, you give up altogether. And when you give up, there’s no way you’ll ever get it. But if you say you can’t do it  _ yet _ … You’re giving yourself permission to fail. You’re acknowledging that you can and will get better. You’re saying you can do it. Not right now, but you can, and you will.” 

He stares at her in amazement and wonders when his cousin got this wise. Or perhaps she was always this wise. “You ever thought about being a motivational speaker?” he asks. “Or, like, a guru or something?” 

She chuckles, getting up from the piano bench. “Add it to the list of my many talents. C’mon. Let’s take a break and get you some water. You  _ definitely  _ strained your vocal chords on that last runthrough.” 

“You know, we used to be inseparable,” he says, following her back into the kitchen where she tops off his glass. 

“Yeah,” she snorts. “I remember your parents used to say we were twins who got separated at birth.” 

He laughs too. Perhaps it was the result of their mutual only-child situation, or the fact that he didn’t have very many friends growing up. Maybe it was the fact that her classmates tended to call her weird. Or maybe it was the way they somehow understood each other implicitly and could finish each other’s sentences from the moment they first learned to speak. There was a point in time when he would introduce Ashlyn as his sister - when he truly believed she was his sister because the word cousin held no meaning to him. 

“Do you remember the shit we used to get into?” he says, downing half the glass of water. “Like that time we were messing around with the softball in my yard and I hit that pop fly that went right into the window?” 

“I remember the look on your face when you heard the glass shatter,” she says, smiling. 

“Yeah, and when I finally got the nerve to go inside and tell my dad what happened, you were already in there, saying it was your fault… I never could figure out why you took the fall for me.” 

“Because,” Ashlyn shrugs. “Your dad could never stay mad at me for too long and I didn’t want you to get in trouble.” 

He nods pensively. He spent all of high school distancing himself from Ashlyn. It wasn’t intentional, and it wasn’t malicious. Their roads diverged. They just ran in very different circles. She was an AP student and he was captain of the basketball team. The most interaction they had on a typical day was a quick nod while passing in the halls. He regrets it now. 

Ashlyn’s voice cuts through his thoughts as if she can sense where his mind is going. “Don’t act like you never paid me back,” she says. “Remember that time at the park when we were, like, eight? There was that wasp that kept flying around me and I was freaking out, and finally you shoved me out of the way and let it sting you because…” 

“...Because you’re allergic and I’m not,” he fills in the rest, shaking his head. “God, Ash, we used to be so tight. I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder to keep that going.” 

She lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Stop that,” she chides gently. “We grow. We change. We evolve. And as nice as it would be to relive the glory days of EJ and Ash, we’re not little kids anymore, and we can’t stay stuck in the past. So let go of whatever bullshit guilt you’re carrying around about how things could’ve gone. You’re still more of a brother to me than a cousin. That’s what matters. We may not be breaking windows with softballs or taking bee stings for each other anymore, but you’re still just as much a part of my life now as you were then.” 

“Thanks, Ash,” he says softly. 

She smiles, then looks at the time. “Oh, shit,” she says. “I just remembered. Big Red and I are supposed to go out tonight. There’s a classic film double-feature at the theater downtown.” 

“Yeah, no worries,” EJ grins. “What’s going on with you two anyway?”

“Wha-? Who? Me and Big Red?” she sputters. “You know, nothing. Not much. We’re cool. Just hanging.” 

“Mmm-hmm,” her cousin says doubtfully. “Listen, whatever it is, Ash, I’m happy for you. Seriously. I don’t think I’ve seen another person make you smile this much since you were with your last girlfriend.” 

Her shrug is noncommittal, but the slight blush in her cheeks tells him that she knows he’s right. The doorbell rings and she crosses quickly to answer it. Big Red stands on the other side, wearing a t-shirt with a bow-tie printed onto it and holding a bouquet of sunflowers. “Hey!” she greets, and for a moment, EJ thinks he hears her start to say his name. His real name, obscured from everyone except perhaps Ricky. It’s subtle and quick, and he can’t tell what syllable she was starting to form. An S? An F? But she quickly realizes they aren’t alone and corrects herself. “Big Red! Come in!” 

“Oh, hey, EJ,” Big Red greets upon seeing him in the kitchen. 

Ashlyn busies herself with filling a vase with water and dropping the sunflowers inside. “Okay,” she announces. “We’re gonna head off. EJ, would you mind locking up?” 

“Not at all,” he says. “You two kids have fun!” 

She shoots him a glare of mock severity that quickly softens into a smile. “Keep practicing,” she says. “If you need me to accompany you on piano, let me know.” And then she loops her arm in Big Red’s and lets him escort her out the door. 

* * *

Seb pauses the YouTube clip and rewinds slowly, dragging his index finger back on the scrub bar as he watches the dancers repeat the motions in reverse. He taps play and the screen freezes. For a moment, he worries he’s lost reception again. The barn often has spotty WiFi, but it’s the only space large enough for him to rehearse. The screen changes over to an incoming FaceTime call with Carlos’s contact image. He accepts it quickly and holds the phone up. 

“Hey!” he smiles.

“Hey yourself,” Carlos grins. “I just sent you a  _ crapload  _ of links but I figured I’d call to check in. And to see your face. Where are you?” 

“The barn,” Seb answers, glancing around the dimly-lit building. “Where are you? It looks bright.” He catches a glimpse of a wood floor and a wall-length mirror in the background. 

Carlos looks offscreen for a moment. “In the studio,” he says. “It’s gonna be another late night, but we’re taking a break.”

“Looks like a dream,” Seb says wistfully. 

Carlos lets out a small, self-conscious laugh and pans the camera around, revealing a space twice the size of the barn. A few other dancers mill about in the background, dressed in workout clothes. “It is,” he says. “I meant what I said last time I was in Utah, you know? About bringing you out here for Christmas? New York is  _ magical  _ in the winter. You have to see it. And,” he adds slyly, “I’m told there’s going to be a few spots open for company dancers during the spring theater season. I know it’s not much, but it’s a start, and with your talent, I’m sure you’ll rise through the ranks in no time.” 

Seb is grateful that the dim barn lighting hides his blush. Carlos has always hyped him up, even when he hasn’t believed in himself, and he’s flattered that he’s working so hard to get him a spot in a production. He’s also reasonably sure it’s Carlos’s way of taking the next step in the will-they-won’t-they relationship that they’ve danced around for the last two years, fearful of moving forward because of distance while remaining steadfastly committed to not seeing anyone else. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t dreamed of a cozy apartment on the Upper East Side, of waking up next to one another instead of on opposite sides of the country, of talking and laughing in person instead of on FaceTime calls that always have to be meticulously and perfectly scheduled to avoid conflicting with their busy days and the time difference. 

“Thanks,” he says slowly. “But… I don’t know if I’m ready to give up on this place yet,” he adds. “This school? This job? This is me. I’m home. And I don’t want to give that up without a fight.” 

Carlos nods as if he anticipated this answer all along. “Then I’m with you, Seb. A hundred percent, I’m with you. If it’s do or die, I’m gonna be down in the trenches fighting beside you. Dance your heart out, okay?” 

Seb giggles. “I don’t know how to dance any other way.” 

“And Seb? I believe in you. I believe in all of you so much. But if this doesn’t work out… I’m working on a contingency plan.”

The blond nods. “Thanks,” he says, “But something tells me we won’t need it. I just have a feeling.” 

* * *

It’s past 10 PM, but the light remains on in Kourtney’s dining room that serves as her studio, sewing room, and boardroom. She moves her pencil lightly back and forth, sketching out a bright purple dress. 

It’s art, she thinks, setting the pencil down and sitting back in her seat to inspect her work. She remembers the first time a teacher spotted the doodles in her sketchbook and said the same thing. Junior year, she’d been lost. While Nini was off singing and dancing and chasing after boys, so certain of her future, she’d remained paralyzed with indecision. Her mom had encouraged her to be a doctor or a nurse or a pharmacist like her. Her dad had not-so-subtly pointed out how much financial analysts could make. But none of those careers spoke to her, and so she found herself at a crossroads, possessing many talents but lacking the desire to commit to any of them for fear of shutting out the rest. 

And then Ms. Kossal had taken a peek at her sketchbook one day during lunch. Kourtney wasn’t even in an art class at the time, but she reluctantly slid the book over to the art teacher and waited with baited breath while she flipped through page after page loaded with sleek and brightly-colored outfits adorning dark-skinned bodies with afro hairdos, a lookbook of fictional models who looked just like her, and who looked just like Ms. Kossal. 

“Kourtney, this is art,” the teacher had said when she’d finished looking through the designs. “You’ve clearly got a gift. Have you thought about a career in design?”

She hadn’t until that moment, but to hear the suggestion come from a teacher’s lips - a teacher who looked like her and who sat and appraised her drawings and found them beautiful and worthy - sealed the deal. She was going to be a designer. She was going to start a responsible and sustainable fashion label. She was going to produce clothing that made everyone feel fabulous. And when she shared the news with her family, with Nini, and with their friends, they’d all agreed that it seemed like such a natural fit. 

It’s art, Kourtney reminds herself. Art is beauty, but it’s also emotion. It makes people feel beautiful and worthy. It makes people feel at home. It makes an impact. She sets the sketch aside and turns her attention to the numerous costume ideas that have sprung to mind since she first agreed to help with the revue. Every bolt of fabric and half-finished sketch is a reminder of what’s at stake. She picks up a piece of red cloth, measures it carefully, marks it with a pencil, sets her jaw, and starts sewing. 

* * *

“Alright, Halfpipe,” Big Red smiles down at the dog. “Ready for bed?” He holds his bedroom door open and ushers the dog inside. He flops down on the bed, cradling his phone in his hand, a video game playthrough open on YouTube. He lowers the volume and stares up at the ceiling, letting his phone fall to his side on the mattress.

The skate shop downstairs has been rearranged completely. Racks of skateboard decks have been pushed against the walls and the indoor ramp has been temporarily disassembled and removed, replaced instead by an open floor for dance rehearsals, the crappy old keyboard from their college dorm, and one of the guitars Ricky left at the apartment. The space is ready, and he smiles to himself knowing that he’s prepared it himself, that the revolution will begin at Big Red’s. 

He’s always been a believer in the underdogs, and that faith has permeated every decision he’s ever made. It’s why agreed to sponsor the Salt Lake City Skate Championship when everyone doubted whether Salt Lake City had enough of a skate scene to warrant the expense. It’s why he chose to sponsor the musical last year. It’s why he continues to repair his old Volkswagen instead of giving it up and trading it in. And it’s why he adopted Halfpipe from the shelter despite being returned three times for destroying couches, mattresses, and entire living rooms. 

Every chance he’s ever taken on an underdog has paid off. Tony Hawk endorsed his skate shop. The musical was a rousing success, not just for the students and the school, but also for Ricky and Nini, and for him, too, through the friends he’s made. The Beetle continues to chug along and Halfpipe hasn’t so much as bitten a cushion. 

He hasn’t always understood the value of being an underdog. He hasn’t always viewed himself as such. In high school, he had another name for it.  _ Burnout _ . The kid who always turned up to class fifteen minutes late, who passed with straight Ds, who never had a pencil or a piece of paper or his textbooks. And for most of his life, he had convinced himself that he was content in accepting that label. Aim low, avoid disappointment. And while he’d always had the pie-in-the-sky idea that he would open a skate shop, mostly because he was tired of having to order all his gear online and wait days for it to arrive by mail, he’d never actually believed it could come to fruition. 

It hadn’t been until his sophomore year, where by some miracle he found himself with the perfect storm of teachers - English, history, science, math, even gym - when he believed himself capable of being anything more. It was through their attentiveness, their compassion, their pleas for him to come to before-school help, after-school help, and study hall. It was their constant reassurance that he was not a burnout, and that they were not going to aim low when it came to him. It was the first year he hadn’t been a straight D student. He’d earned all C’s, and even a B in English. And when his English teacher asked him what his future plans were on the last day of school, Big Red had smiled and said that he wanted to open a business. 

Mrs. B. hadn’t laughed like he’d expected. She hadn’t told him that running a business required knowledge and intelligence. And years later, he would come to learn that she hadn’t said those things because she’d never doubted that he possessed them. 

What she’d said instead was, “Opening a business is tough. You’re gonna be the underdog. But being an underdog is sort of like being a secret weapon. They’ll never see you coming until you’re already on top. And I know you’ll get there.” 

Those words were like armor. He strapped them on and used them as a shield every time a professor ripped apart his business plan or told him that there was no business case for a skate shop when Amazon could fulfill that need for far cheaper. At every turn, he was told to give up, and at every turn he doubled down. Because to be an underdog is to be a secret weapon, and every one of his doubters would come to prove that they would never see him coming until he was already on top.

Halfpipe lets out an exhausted sigh and rolls onto his side. Big Red shuts the light off and smiles in the dark. There is a secret weapon being developed in his skate shop, and it’s being assembled by the largest and most determined group of underdogs he’s ever seen. And he’s certain that the superintendent and the board of education won’t see them coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my favorite I've ever written, for many reasons. When I first began writing it, it was my favorite for all of the fun references and parallels I wanted to include. Now, it's taken on new meaning for me. And I'm struck by how, when I conceived of this story, I had no idea what would be taking place in our world by the time I began to publish it. I've been uplifted by the comments reminding me that in a time like this, this story can still bring joy to others. It brings relief to my anxiety to write it. All I ask is that we all treat one another - and the people we meet and come across - with compassion. Because empathy is more rebellious than a middle finger, and I think we are all a little fragile right now. I love you all. So much.
> 
> Title from Rent, and it's never felt more salient. Be well. The Rini oneshot is coming, and it will hopefully be a big slice of comfort pie for us all.


	14. Ya Got Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm sooo sorry for how long this update took to push out. We were getting new sprinkler lines put in at my house and they accidentally cut through the internet cable. So I went most of the week without internet access (besides using the data on my phone). Long story short, because I use Google Docs for everything, I wasn't able to type the next chapter until the internet was restored. Thankfully, I'm back in business!
> 
> So yeah, sorry for the long wait but I hope this chapter will deliver. Without further ado...

By Monday, rumors about the revue have started to spread through the school like wildfire. Students huddle around their lockers, talking in hushed whispers and glancing around surreptitiously whenever a teacher comes down the hall. In the back of the music room, Ricky hears three sophomores giggling amongst themselves as they discuss the song they’ll perform. In the gym, EJ smirks to himself when he overhears two football players discussing how their girlfriends convinced them to join in on the event. He slyly begins dribbling a basketball to cover the sound of their conversation. In Nini’s class, the lesson plan goes out the window within the first five minutes of the period as her students are quickly consumed with talking about it.

By lunch, Big Red texts the group chat to announce that the skate shop is fully prepped and ready.  _ Big Red’s Skate Shop is now Big Red’s Rebel HQ. Bring everyone anytime starting tonight! _

Ricky texts back quickly.  _ It’s not a rebellion! _

EJ answers a moment later.  _ It’s totally a rebellion. _

Kourtney joins in a minute after.  _ We really gotta work on our branding. _

* * *

At the end of the day, Gina gathers her folders of quizzes that she should have graded a week ago, puts them into her houndstooth tote bag, and makes her way down to the cafeteria. Robotics club members start filtering in, signing their names on the sign-in sheet and seating themselves at the tables. They peer up at her, unusually silent. The room feels charged, as if the collective excitement in the atmosphere could somehow power the robot all on its own.

“Is it true, Ms. Porter?” A student raises his hand the moment the clock hits three and the meeting begins. 

“Is what true?” Gina asks. 

“That the robotics club is helping with the revue.” 

Her breath hitches and she feels herself stiffen, but she’s unable to stop the slow smile that spreads across her face as she glances around the room, ascertaining that they are alone. A steady chatter goes up around the room as students turn to one another, murmuring excitedly.

“Alright,” Gina raises her voice, waving a hand to call their attention back. “Here’s the deal.” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “I’m not forcing anyone to participate if they don’t want to. But if you  _ do  _ want to participate… I’ll let you use our meeting time to prepare your performances. And for those who aren’t participating, I have an idea for our first big project. I said at the beginning that the robotics club often helps out at other school functions, and the revue will be our first. That means we’ll need detailed plans for how to hook up the sound system, a platform to use as a stage, and a way to conceal the whole thing until the board meeting.”

She takes in the wide, excited eyes of her students as their murmuring resumes, and she can’t help but feel a twinge of pride at the dozen students gathered before her. Annie sits at the edge of a table, one leg crossed over the other as she beams at the teacher, then turns to the students seated near her. 

“Okay, let’s break into teams,” Gina shouts over their voices. “If you’re preparing for a performance, grab a table and get cracking. Everyone else is with me. We’re gonna work on a concept for the sound system.” 

* * *

Gina Porter has always understood the value of caution. Calculated risks are her mother’s specialty. With dozens of staff going into active disaster sites - earthquake zones where the aftershocks were still fresh and recurring, hurricane-ravaged neighborhoods with floodwaters that had yet to recede - calculated risks were the only type of risk she could afford to take. Especially with a young daughter in tow. So while her upbringing was fearless and her mother moreso, Gina is all-too-aware of the need to weigh every factor, to consider every angle, to have a backup-to-the-backup plan just in case Murphy’s Law decides to intervene.

But despite her instincts, she has no backup plan when Benjamin Mazzara wanders into the cafeteria unannounced, his gait brisk and his immaculately-polished shoes clicking across the tile as he approaches. Gina snaps to attention, quickly tucking a loose curl behind her ear and clasping her hands in front of her, using her body to strategically block the crudely-sketched blueprint she’s been working on with six other students. 

“Mr. Mazzara,” she says breathlessly, shooting a meaningful glance at the students clustered behind her. Annie discreetly maneuvers the blueprint closer to her. Across the cafeteria, the students working on their performances have stopped singing and begun studiously flipping through notebooks, acting busy. Gina breathes an inward sigh of relief, then reminds herself that high schoolers are naturally sneaky. 

“Just stopping by to see what our hardworking robotics club members are accomplishing,” he says, eyes roving around the room. “Which is… What, exactly?” 

Gina rocks back and forth on her heels, smiling tightly. “Oh!” she says, her voice rising in pitch. “Well, we’ve divided into two teams,” she gestures to the group behind her and the students across the cafeteria. 

“Our team is working on circuitry,” Annie supplies.

The superintendent leans over to peek at the page. “Looks like… A speaker system?” he questions, arching a brow at the teacher.

“Yes,” Gina jumps in quickly. “We thought it might be a nice feature to include on the finished robot. A sound system that could play walk-out music. You know? Hype up the crowd. Intimidate our opponents?” 

“Going for the bonus style points, I see,” Mazzara says with a twinkle in his eye. “Excellent. And very complex, I might add. I eagerly await the finished product.” 

Gina notes that his tone is clipped as ever, betraying little of the excitement he claims to feel. “And the other team is brainstorming ideas on how to improve our school while we wait for more details about the spring competition.” 

“Well, Ms. Porter, it looks like your club is running like a well-oiled machine,” the superintendent says, half-smirking at his own pun. “And if you’re looking for walk-out, get-the-crowd-hyped music, might I suggest X Gon’ Give It To Ya?” He does his best approximation of a fist pump. 

Gina bites back a laugh and repositions herself to screen her students’ reaction from view, though she’s unable to cover the peels of laughter that they erupt into. “We’ll...take it under advisement.” 

“Excellent,” Mazzara clears his throat and straightens his tie, regaining his dignity. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

She turns back to the club and lets out a sigh of relief, chiding herself for being so shortsighted and nearly blowing the entire plan. “We have to be more careful, guys,” she tells the students when she’s sure the superintendent is out of earshot. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to use club meeting time for this going forward, so anyone who’s free should meet up at Big Red’s Skate Shop on Seventh after school. We’ll be there to help you work on the revue.” She glances around the room, making eye contact with each of her students. “And if you plan on telling anyone...make sure they’re trustworthy.”

* * *

Gina leaves the school a half hour after the robotics club meeting ends, having secured the blueprints in her bag and locked up her classroom for the night. She spots Annie lingering outside the main entrance, beanie pulled low over her head and one arm wrapped around herself as she frowns at her phone. 

It’s a familiar sight. Not so long ago, Gina was that same girl, waiting outside the school if she missed the late bus and her mom couldn’t pick her up. She remembers how mortifying it was to catch the knowing glances from her teachers as they left for the night, and how humiliated she was on the rare occasions that one of her classmates happened to see her standing there, solitary and lost. She’d been prideful then, steadfastly refusing rides from peers and teachers alike, always adamant that her mom was right around the corner. It would sometimes take hours before the familiar Taurus station wagon - more of a home to her than any hastily leased apartment that her mother found - creaked to a halt before her. Often, it was already dark by the time she tumbled into the passenger seat, dropped her backpack on the ground, and insisted that no, she didn’t want to talk about it. 

For a moment, she halts in her tracks, uncertain of what to do or say. Should she be sympathetic? Should she tell Annie that she’s been in her position too many times to count? Should she say nothing at all and keep walking so as to avoid embarrassing her? She settles for, “Is your ride coming?” Her voice is warm, nonchalant, and she walks slowly towards Annie, her heels clicking on the concrete. 

Annie looks up, startled. “Oh! Uh, yeah. My grandpa should be on his way soon. He works late sometimes, that’s all.” 

Gina looks around. The sky is tinged in shades of peach and gold as the sun starts to recede. The long summer evenings are behind them, and with October right around the corner, the has grown steadily colder. A brisk breeze rustles the first fallen leaves on the ground. They swirl at her feet. “Do you know when he’ll be there?” 

Annie shrugs helplessly. “Soon. I think,” she says. “I texted him like, four or five times already… I hope he’ll be able to drop me off at the skate shop.” 

The math teacher nods, shifting the weight of her bag from one arm to the other. “Actually,” she says, “I’m heading over there myself. If it’s okay with you and your grandpa, I can give you a ride. Save him a trip.” 

The student’s face lights up. “Really?” she says incredulously.

Gina nods. “Of course. You’re the one who brought the revue to my attention. I wouldn’t want you to miss out.” 

The girl smiles and nods. “Thanks, Ms. Porter.”

Wordlessly, Gina leads the student to her car, tossing her belongings across the rear seat before turning her headlights on and putting the car into gear.

* * *

EJ attempts to finish strong, mimicking the belting that he’s watched Nini and Ricky and Ashlyn do countless times before. He tries to move his air as Ashlyn advised him to do, and he tries to sing from the diaphragm as Ricky instructed, and he tries to round his syllables as Nini advised. The noise that escapes his mouth is less of a note and more of a strangled howl, and he cuts himself off immediately.

“You’re okay,” Ashlyn says gently from her seat on the piano bench, fingers poised above the keyboard. He doesn’t like her placating tone. It’s as if she’s trying to reason with a leopard. “Let’s just run it from the top again? You’re getting there.” 

“Don’t lie to me, Ash,” he huffs. “We’ve been doing this for days and I’m getting worse, not better.” 

“You’re not a trained vocalist,” she reminds him.

“Neither are you,” he retorts. “And yet you somehow manage to sound amazing.” 

The redhead takes a deep breath and tries to remind herself that this is how EJ has always been. Perfectionistic to a fault. Demanding of himself. Unwilling to accept mediocrity and unwilling to allow himself to be taught. She’d thought that the injury that ended his basketball career and upended his entire life would have trained him out of that mentality but old habits die hard.

“Let’s take a break,” Ashlyn suggests. 

“I guess,” he grumbles.

Nini overhears and looks up from her seat a few feet away, a printout of Mariela’s speech in her hand. She hands the paper back to the student. “Looks good! Why don’t you practice it again a couple times on your own?” she suggests, rising from her chair and making her way toward EJ, who stands to one side and takes a long pull from his water bottle. 

She slows down as she approaches, hands working their way into her pockets. “Hey,” she says softly. 

EJ glances at her out of the corner of his eye. The distraction causes him to overfill his mouth with water and it dribbles down the side of his mouth before he can stop it. She tries not to laugh, but a small giggle escapes her lips anyway. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey,” he replies, his tone dark. 

“I, uh, couldn’t help but overhear you practicing with Ashlyn.” 

He grimaces. “Sorry. I can buy you earplugs if you want.” 

Nini sighs. EJ isn’t the type to give up easily. It was one of the first things that drew her to him when they started working together, aside from the fact that she’d spent almost all of high school daydreaming about him. But she’s seen him doubt himself before, and she knows that when the seeds of doubt get ahold of him, they have a tendency to take over all semblance of rational thought. They paralyze him. She sees it happening now, as he inches closer and closer to quitting the revue altogether, and she knows he won’t talk about it. Not to Gina. Not to Ricky. Not to Seb or Kourtney or Big Red. Not even to Ashlyn. Even before they dated, she was the only friend he felt truly comfortable being vulnerable with. They’ve spent months dancing awkwardly around each other, and she would bet her last dollar that he hasn’t spoken about any of his insecurities with anyone. It’s the way EJ operates: playing his highlight reel over and over to distract from his shortcomings. 

And she also knows that something’s changed. Maybe it’s the frustration of being cast aside by Mazzara, who clearly considers him to be a sideshow at best. Maybe it’s his newfound friendship with Ricky and Gina and Seb and the others. Maybe it’s the realization that they’re well and truly over, and that he needs to move on. Or maybe he’s well and truly determined to make a change for the better. At some point, she has to admit that it doesn’t matter what the motivation is. The old EJ Caswell wouldn’t have risked his reputation on a movement that, on the surface, has no bearing on him. The old EJ Caswell would not have been so gung-ho about leading the charge. The old EJ Caswell would never even entertain the idea of getting up in front of a public board meeting and singing a show tune. 

She likes this version of EJ, with his best traits shining through. This is the EJ Caswell she first befriended and fell for, and this is the EJ Caswell she considers a friend now. All of his charm and charisma and decisiveness and natural leadership is on full display. Nini surveys the room, taking in the students scattered about until her eyes come to rest on a rack of skateboard decks tucked away in a far corner of the shop. She jerks her head towards it. “Walk with me?” He hesitates, but when she starts off toward the back corner and doesn’t turn around, he follows wordlessly. 

She spins around to face him the moment she reaches the corner. “Look at me, EJ,” she says, her voice soft but tinged with a fiery determination. “I know we’ve had our ups and downs. I know things didn’t end the way we wanted them to. But you’re my friend and I care about you, and I can’t stand back and watch you tear yourself apart over a stupid song. Maybe you’re not a musician, but you’re talented and you’re dedicated. I’ve seen you nail three-pointer after three-pointer without even looking at the basket. I’ve watched you lead a team to three consecutive state championships. And despite everything that’s happened, I know you well enough to know you have a good heart. You have always had a good heart. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be standing here right now, doing your damndest to support us despite the fact that you’ve never sung in front of an audience before.”

“That’s not exactly true. Remember that one time we did karaoke?” His eyes shine with mirth but they both know the quip is a momentary distraction. He’s never done well with praise, even when he’s earned it.

She laughs despite herself. “That doesn’t count. You were drunk and nobody expects a karaoke version of Sweet Caroline to sound even remotely coherent. My point is, EJ, I know this is out of your comfort zone. But I also need you to know that we don’t expect you to be perfect. It’s enough that you’re trying. It’s enough that you’re here.  _ You  _ are enough.” She gently rests a hand on his shoulder and leans forward, her dark eyes seeking his blue-green.

He’s startled by the intensity of her expression. He’d forgotten the way Nini’s eyes could bore into him and make him feel seen in an instant. His body, moments ago coiled like a spring, slowly relaxes. He unclenches his fists and lets his shoulders drop, taking her hand with them. A slow hiss of breath escapes through his nostrils as he draws in another and blinks back the tears that press at his eyes. 

“What if I get up there and I completely suck and I look like an idiot?” EJ sighs, a slight tremor in his voice.

Nini shrugs, smiling softly. “And so what if you do?” she questions. “There aren’t many people who’d be willing to take that risk for their friends, and we’ll love you anyway.” She pauses and waits until he brings his gaze back up from the floor to meet hers before continuing on. “You can do this, EJ. I know you can.” 

He nods slowly. “Thanks, Nini,” he says, voice slightly choked as relief floods his veins. In an instant, her thin arms are wrapped around him. Her hug is warm, sincere, and friendly, and he realizes it’s been months since anyone’s hugged him at all. He tenses momentarily before slowly bringing his own arms up to return her embrace. 

Across the skate shop, Devin’s trumpet unleashes a mournful, half-hearted noise. Ricky does his best not to wince at the discordant note. 

“I don’t know why that keeps happening, Mr. Bowen,” the boy grumbles in frustration. “It’s like I can get the first two measures, but I get to this one here,” he gestures to the sheet music open on the stand in front of them, “and the whole thing falls apart.” 

“It’s okay,” Ricky replies. “You’re still learning. Nobody gets it overnight.” He racks his brain, trying to decipher why the redheaded freshman is having such a difficult time. “Can you play it for me again?” he requests, leaning back in his seat, brow slightly furrowed.

Devin complies, playing the first two measures nearly flawlessly before producing the same flat, withering noise in the third. Ricky sits up suddenly. “Play that last note again?” Devin looks at him with a puzzled expression but obliges. “I think I know the issue,” Ricky says after the boy’s third attempt results in a similar sound. 

The freshman takes his lips off the mouthpiece and lets the trumpet rest across his knees. “What?” he asks eagerly. 

“It sounds like you’re holding back,” he says. “You aren’t moving your air. It’s almost… It’s almost like you’re muffling your instrument.” 

Devin considers this for a moment, then nods slowly. “When I practice at home, I try to keep it down.” 

“Why’s that?” Ricky questions, though he has a feeling he already knows the answer.

The boy shrugs. “It’s just that… Well, my dad sleeps on the couch most nights so I practice in the basement. And I don’t want to wake him up because he already barely sleeps and it just… It feels wrong to play loudly, I guess.” 

Ricky nods. He’s no stranger to muffling the sound of his own instrument. Or voice. Or crying. In the weeks and months leading up to his parents’ final separation, he often found himself existing in a quiet purgatory. The house inevitably descended into a shell-shocked silence following a blowout, and he would tread lightly for fear that his mere footsteps would awaken his parents’ dormant fighting instincts and cause another round of angry, raised voices. Every conversation had to be kept to a whisper. The TV could never be turned up. He would gingerly pluck guitar strings and immediately use his hand to stop them from vibrating. The quiet was its own prison, unbearable and unending, and by the time the divorce was finalized and he moved out to Chicago, he had forgotten what it felt like to be able to make a sound at all.

“I get it,” he says carefully to Devin. “I actually went through something really similar when my parents split up.” He catches the wide-eyed expression Devin makes upon hearing this new tidbit about the music teacher. “I was scared to make a sound, too. I didn’t wanna wake anyone up or get anyone mad. But here’s the cool thing about music - what makes it different from most other subjects. With music, it’s all about the sound. Your instrument is an extension of your body. That trumpet is an extension of your throat and your voice. And that means that when you can’t find the words to express what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling, you can use your instrument to speak for you. You can channel all of that into your trumpet and let the sound do the talking.” He smiles at his student and lifts the trumpet up for him to take. “In order to produce the sound you want, you gotta move your air through it. Don’t muffle yourself, Devin. Nobody’s sleeping on the couch. You can be as loud as you want here.” 

Devin takes the trumpet from Ricky and considers it, eyes raking over the brass, fingers tracing the valves. He nods, raises the instrument tentatively to his lips, and closes his eyes. With a deep breath, he tries to envision the trumpet as an extension of his throat. He tries to picture the sound he wants to make and the message it will convey. Finally, he moves his air as instructed and produces a singular, loud, perfectly-in-pitch note. 

“That’s it!” Ricky exclaims, leaping from his chair so quickly that he almost knocks it over. “Just like that!” 

The boy smiles, eyes alight with astonishment as he attempts it once more, channeling his air through the instrument with intent and producing the sound again. 

* * *

Big Red sets the snacks out about an hour and a half into their practice, and soon everyone is lining up along the glass memorabilia case for helpings of popcorn and pretzels and cheese puffs. With everyone distracted, Nini seats herself at the now-abandoned keyboard. Sheet music from the musical  _ Once  _ sits open before her and she remembers Ricky using it to help a group of juniors warm up. Absent-mindedly, she begins to play along as her eyes skim over the notes.

“I recognize that tune,” Mariela says, sauntering over to the keyboard and setting her paper plate down. “‘Falling Slowly,’ right?” 

Nini smiles and nods without breaking time, and Mariela’s voice - high and lilting - joins in when she reaches the chorus. 

“Take this sinking boat and point it home. We’ve still got time. Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice. You’ll make it now.” 

She stops singing suddenly, causing Nini to pause. “Why’d you stop?” she asks the girl. 

“It’s a duet. I need a partner,” Mariela answers, eyes flitting around the room before settling on Max’s lanky form leaning against a wall with several other members of the basketball team. “Max!” she shouts, getting the boy’s attention just as he shoves a fistful of cheese puffs into his mouth. His eyes widen as he turns to face her. 

Mariela giggles. “C’mere! I need you to do this duet with me,” she says, wiggling a finger in a come-hither motion. 

“M-me?” he asks, mouth still full, cheese puff crumbs falling from his lips involuntarily.

She nods earnestly. Blushing furiously, Max mumbles something to his friends and starts toward her, tripping over his own feet twice along the way. “I don’t sing,” he says as soon as he reaches the keyboard where Nini sits, smirking to herself. 

“That’s what I used to tell myself, too,” Mariela answers easily. 

“But I don’t know the words!” Max protests.

“They’re printed right on the sheet music,” the dark-haired girl offers helpfully. “Or you could always Google them on your phone. C’mon, it’ll be fun!” 

Nini starts the song over. With some coaxing from Mariela, Max starts the song. His voice is trembling and choked. “I don’t know you but I want you all the more for that.”

Mariela joins him in the next line, her voice airy and light as she harmonizes with his deeper, shakey one, covering any imperfections in his singing and emboldening him to sing a little louder. “Words fall through me and always fool me and I can’t react.” 

The zap of an electrical short and a loud, startled cry interrupts them and Nini lifts her fingers from the key instantaneously. A second later, the entire room is plunged into darkness. A crash echoes throughout the room as one of the racks of skateboard decks comes crashing to the ground, causing several students to shriek in alarm. 

“Everyone alright?” Ricky’s voice rings out.

“We’re okay!” Seb’s voice returns. “Just knocked into one of the shelves, that’s all.” 

“What happened to the lights?” Ashlyn asks. 

“Our fault!” Gina’s voice calls out in response. “I think we tripped a breaker.” 

Big Red sighs and activates the flashlight on his phone. “I’ll go to the fuse box.” 

Students and teachers alike fumble for their phones, activating the lights. Ricky crosses the shop to sit beside Nini, reaching for her hand as soon as he settles onto the piano bench because he knows she’s not a fan of the dark. “Kinda cool, isn’t it?” he says, his dimpled smile lit up by the stark white of his phone light. 

“What’s kinda cool?” she asks, leaning against his shoulder. 

“This. It’s like being at a concert,” he says, gesturing at all the specks of light emanating from individual phones. They hang in the air, illuminating the space around them in a ghostly, ethereal glow. “Or like looking at the stars.” A hush falls over the shop. There is no hum of electronic equipment, no steady whoosh from the air conditioning. The students huddle together, speaking in whispers.

“Stage lights,” Nini offers. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shifting so that his head rests against hers. “Or stage lights.” 

A whirring sound signals that the electricity has been restored. The HVAC system kicks in and a moment later, the overhead lights come back on, overtaking the cell phone lights and bathing everything in a warm, yellow glow. Voices gradually grow louder and people begin to stir like they’ve just awoken from a long nap. Nini sits up, stretches, and smiles at Ricky. He notices the bags under her eyes, the haggard tilt to her grin, and the slightly curled strands of her long, dark hair that poke out here and there. She’s exhausted. She’s been exhausted for weeks. And yet there’s still a sense of radiance about her - a spark in her dark eyes that hasn’t been extinguished despite setback after setback. 

Big Red returns from the fuse box to assess the damage. The rack lies on its side, skateboard decks scattered about - intact but upended. Seb is on hands and knees with his dancers, picking up each fallen piece of merchandise. Big Red joins them in gathering the decks up. 

“Sorry about that,” Seb apologizes with a tight, embarrassed smile. “I guess we overestimated how much space we had, and the lights going off probably didn’t help.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Big Red answers easily. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve knocked stuff over in here. Usually doing a skateboard trick. At least you have a better reason.” 

Together, the two right the shelf. “Are you kidding? Skateboard tricks are awesome,” Seb says. “I’ve never had that kind of coordination.” 

“It’s not so hard,” Red shrugs, sticking the skateboard decks back on the shelf. 

“Well, maybe you can teach me when we’re all done here,” the dancer says. 

The redhead laughs. “Yeah, for sure! And hey, maybe you can teach me how to dance.” 

“It’s not so hard,” Seb parrots with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Have you ever tried?” 

Big Red nods, slotting the last deck into place. “When I was eight, I was part of the JCC’s production of  _ Fiddler on the Roof _ . And there was a girl from my synagogue who did tap. She showed me a thing or two.” 

“No way,” Seb hoots. 

“Yes way,” Red answers.

“This I have to see.” 

The redhead glances around, suddenly bashful. “I’m a little rusty. And I don’t have tap shoes. But…” He takes a deep breath and launches into what he remembers of his childhood routine. Seb watches, mouth agape in astonishment and before long, Ricky notices and rushes over with Nini to watch. Red feels himself starting to blush, his nickname becoming all the more appropriate as he turns a deeper shade of crimson with each passing second. 

By the time he finishes, everyone has stopped what they were doing to gather around. He stops, his breathing ragged as he musters his best nonchalant grin. 

“That was...unexpected,” Gina says, a surprised grin overtaking her features. 

“More like incredible!” EJ replies.

Ricky claps his best friend on the back, beaming at him. “Dude, you never told me you knew how to dance.” 

Big Red shrugs. “It never really came up.” 

Suddenly, Ashlyn launches herself at him, enveloping him in a tight hug and planting an unabashed kiss to his cheek that causes him to redden further. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” she tells him. 

For a moment, he goes completely slack-jawed, unable to devise a single response. Finally, he manages to string together a coherent sentence and mumbles, “Yeah, well, I can think of something more amazing.” His eyes are trained directly on her and it’s her turn to blush. 

* * *

They finally send the kids home at eight o’clock, and when the last student is picked up, the adults stay behind to help Big Red put the shop back together. Kourtney gathers up any remaining paper plates, carefully avoiding the crumbs while bemoaning the difficulties of finding clothing that is cute, danceable, and school appropriate to Nini, who sweeps the floor, and Gina, who gathers up napkins and any loose garbage she can find. EJ and Ricky help move the rows of shelving back into place, careful not to knock anything over, while Seb and Ashlyn tuck the instruments out of the way. 

“Well, I feel like we got a lot done today,” Big Red says cheerfully. 

Gina throws him a look. “If by ‘a lot,’ you mean tripping the breakers and knocking over some shelving.” 

“Guys,” Ricky interrupts. “It was the first day in a new space and none of us really know what we’re doing. It’s gonna be a little chaotic but we’ll get the hang of it. Right?” 

“Right,” Nini nods vigorously. “It’s like this during the first read-through of a musical, too. Everyone’s still figuring things out.” 

“Give it a couple days,” Ricky continues. 

“A couple days is all we’ve got,” Kourtney points out. “The school board meeting is next week.”

EJ turns to the others, a skeptical look in his eye. “Are we sure we can do this?” 

“Positive,” Ricky replies readily, putting his hand in the circle. 

Nini places her hand over his and EJ nods, adding his to the middle. One by one, they each join in, until everyone has a hand in the circle. “Underdogs on three?” Ricky says. 

“No,” Seb interrupts. “Revue-lution on three.” 

The music teacher nods, smirking. “One, two, three…”

“Revue-lution!” 

“You guys,” Ashlyn says afterwards. “I’ve already started doing a whole lesson on tyranny and what happens historically when people are oppressed. I cannot  _ wait  _ for this board meeting.” There is a wild, giddy look in her eye that makes EJ laugh. 

“Take it easy there, Rebel-Without-A-Cause. We’re not in eighth grade anymore.” 

“You’re right,” Ashlyn replies readily. “We can actually do something now.” 

EJ catches the group’s questioning look. “Did Ash never tell you about her middle school rebellious streak?” 

“No,” Big Red pipes up with interest, causing Ashlyn to smile sheepishly at him. 

“Oh, it was  _ great _ ,” EJ says, closing one hand on his cousin’s shoulder and giving her a playful squeeze. “I’m talking black nail polish, turquoise streak in her hair, grungy flannels, talking back to teachers… The whole nine yards.” 

“As I recall, you didn’t do anything to stop me,” his cousin points out. 

“Why would I?” EJ replies. 

“Anyway, those days are long behind me now,” she deflects. 

“Not exactly,” Gina ribs. “I mean, look where we are and what we’re doing.” 

“I dunno, Ash. I think you’d look pretty great with a turquoise hair streak,” Nini throws in playfully. 

“I’d normally call that a fashion disaster,” Kourtney adds, “But you could definitely pull it off.” 

“Oh, and who could forget the crown jewel of it all,” EJ cuts in dramatically. “Ash, tell them about your skateboarding days.” 

“Your what?” Big Red asks, eyes wide as her face reddens. “You didn’t tell me you were a skater!” 

“I  _ wasn’t _ !” Ashlyn protests, unable to stop herself from smiling at the revelation. “I mean... I did a kickflip off the front steps of the middle school and got detention once, but…” 

This time, it’s Big Red who throws himself at her, wrapping her tightly and returning the shameless kiss to her cheek while their friends laugh. 

* * *

“How are you feeling about this whole thing?” Nini asks when she and Ricky have climbed into bed and turned off the light. She rests her head on his chest, using her index finger to trace a lazy, ticklish circle around his abdomen. It’s her favorite position to sleep in. Ricky is a space heater, and his warmth has a way of spreading from her cheek to the rest of her body. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath her, soothing in its rhythm.

He draws in a breath and watches the way Nini rises ever-so-slightly with the expansion of his lungs. For a moment, he doesn’t answer, wrapped up instead in the pleasant warmth and the solid, secure feeling of the love of his life resting against him, her eyelashes fluttering against the thin material of his t-shirt, soft from so many washes. Moonlight filters through the gauzy curtain, throwing pale rays across part of her face. He never feels more at ease than when they’re lying like this. Nini is steady. She’s a buoy, and as long as he’s tethered to her, he’s safe. Anxious storms can’t touch him. He wraps an arm around her body, hugging her closer.

“I’m feeling hopeful,” Ricky finally answers, and his voice, laced with sleepiness, echoes through his ribcage before it reaches her ears. She can feel the vibration of every word. “I know we didn’t get a lot done today, but I have a good feeling about this.” 

“We have a good team beside us,” she murmurs, her hand finally coming to rest flat against his torso.

“We do,” he agrees. “And I’ve got the best partner of all right here next to me,” he adds, squeezing her tighter for just a moment. 

She shifts and looks up at him, his dark eyes hooded by long eyelashes and his curly hair already tussled where it touches the pillow. “I was going to say the same thing,” she tells him, and the slight smile that crosses his lips is enough to make her feel warm inside, too. 

As Nini settles against him, Ricky knows that she’s right. This feels different from last year’s musical, when they frantically rearranged things at every turn to combat EJ and Gina’s schemes. This year, they’re all united. Friends, colleagues, students, all working side-by-side for this cause. And with everyone standing together, he defies Benjamin Mazzara or the school board to try to stop them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not too far from the conclusion of this story, guys! And I have such big plans for the actual revue-lution and I'm really excited to share with you all. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Again, I'm sorry it was so long in coming! Also, in a callback to the original series, the title of this chapter comes from Music Man. Thanks for reading!


	15. One Day More

_ Anyone can be a musician.  _ It’s Ricky’s motto, developed and adopted over the course of many nights teaching himself guitar, many days where his earbuds were the only escape from the noise - or lack thereof - in the house, and many naysayers advising him that he couldn’t make a career out of majoring in music, or that schools were scaling back on music programs, not looking for more teachers. 

He needed it to be true, not just because he could no longer envision another career path for himself, but also because it was a truth he’d settled on. There weren’t very many constants in Ricky Bowen’s life. Music was one of them: unchanging, ever-steady, and universal. 

He sits at the keyboard - the same crappy, $20 dollar one he bought at a yard sale in college - and plays tune after tune, day after day, as students and teachers alike cycle through to practice and refine their performances. Sometimes they improve in leaps and bounds over the course of a single session. Sometimes the improvements are minute, so small that the untrained ear might miss them entirely. But Ricky catches each change, each marker of incremental progress. They solidify what he already knows. Anyone can be a musician.

Nini sneaks glances at her boyfriend across the skate shop in between reading and revising students’ speeches. She can’t help but smile to herself each time she catches his curly-haired head bobbing up and down with the rhythm or swaying with the cadence of Mariela or Noah or Rynn’s voice, his eyes shut as his fingers fly over the keys. Sometimes, if someone makes marked progress or hits a particularly challenging note for the first time, he leaps up from the piano bench and whoops so loudly the rest of the shop comes to a standstill. He never notices everyone staring. Instead, eyes alight, he turns to the singer and commends them.

Watching Ricky work his magic always makes Nini feel warm inside. Her heart swells to the point that it feels ready to burst as she observes him throwing himself utterly and completely into these kids and this cause. Ricky Bowen has always been magnetic. He somehow manages to draw every eye towards him without trying. And yet there’s something about his aura in these moments of triumph - a combination of brotherly and paternal - that makes him even more irresistible. 

On particularly emotional days, she imagines the two of them sitting in the living room of a house much larger than the condo, with a grand piano and a wooden bench and a little boy with her eyes and his curly hair and a little girl with dimples and dark hair in pigtails sitting between them. She imagines Ricky cheering and laughing and clapping along with their small, squeaky voices, and the image makes her blush and smile and want to cry all at once. 

* * *

“This is it,” Ricky announces when they’ve all gathered around on their final night before the board meeting. The sun is fading rapidly and outside, the street lights have just come on. The glare of headlights reflects off the plate glass windows and a gust of wind pushes crunchy leaves down the sidewalk. “Our last rehearsal before the big day.” He turns to Nini, who nods in agreement.

“You’ve all come so far,” she says, glancing meaningfully at each of the gathered students in turn. “And whatever happens tomorrow, we’re proud of you.” 

“Let’s get down to business,” Ricky picks up. “Updates? Gina?” 

“The portble stage is almost done. We’ll be able to roll in there tomorrow afternoon.”

“Awesome! Seb?” 

“Choreography’s looking good!” the blond declares. “A few more run-throughs and we’ll have it perfect.” 

“Ash? Kourt?” 

“Banners are done,” Ashlyn announces.

“And we’re getting there with the outfits,” Kourtney adds.

“Perfect! EJ?” 

“We got this,” EJ says, his voice firm and resolute.

“Alright,” Ricky claps his hands together. “Let’s make this last rehearsal count. Neens, anything to add?”

She nods. Ricky’s always been the hype man of their duo - the one to give the kids a pep talk when things seemed bleak or scary. But she’s picked up a thing or two from him. “I know it’s nerve-wracking. I know a lot can go wrong. I know a lot of us are probably really scared about what tomorrow will bring. But this is just another dress rehearsal, and tomorrow is just another opening night, got it?” She waits for the students to nod before continuing. “Let’s make sure we give them an opening night to remember.” 

* * *

“Alright, from the top!” Seb says, spinning around to watch each of his dancers begin the first routine. “Five, six, seven, eight.” With a careful eye, he surveys each of their movements, his toothy grin growing ever-wider with each flawless move. 

“And now comes the freestyle!” he shouts over the music. “Make it an expression of yourself!” Two of his breakdancers immediately launch into a series of spins on the ground, while his classically-trained ballerina performs a series of pirouettes. Two students with ballroom experience begin a tango. 

Seb laughs and claps his hands as the music winds down and fades out. “Yes! Brilliant! Bravo and brava!” He gestures for the group to huddle up. When they’ve all gathered around, he peers over the rim of his glasses at each of them. “I know we all come from different backgrounds,” he says. “Different styles, different types of training. But when you’re out there dancing, I don’t see any of that. I see a well-oiled machine moving in perfect sync. I see harmony. I see art and beauty, and it moves me. You all have moved me.” He feels himself starting to get choked up and forces the tightness back down his throat, hiding it with a smile. “I have three pieces of advice for you,” he ticks each off on his hand, “Steal the show, dance your heart out, and most importantly, make sure they notice you. Because you deserve to be seen.” 

* * *

Ricky sits with two violinists, helping them work out their timing. Nini smirks slyly at the abandoned keyboard in the corner of the room and moves toward the piano bench, sliding onto the seat soundlessly. She positions her fingers above the keys and plays, letting muscle memory guide her movements. She’s played this song countless times since she first learned it in eighth grade and immediately began citing Carole King as her songwriting influence (right alongside Joni Mitchell, even though all that ever came of it was a silly song about clouds that she claimed was loosely inspired by “Both Sides Now”). 

The keyboard is tinny and the keys feel hard and cheap under her fingers as she opens her mouth and starts to sing.

“ _ All you have to do is touch my hand  
_ _ To show me you understand  
_ _ And something happens to me  
_ _ That’s some kind of wonderful.” _

Ricky is in the middle of relaying an instruction to one of his students when he hears Nini’s voice, smooth and velvety, crooning the song he’s heard emanating from the living room dozens of times before. He slows his speech, staring distractedly in her direction. Her dark hair obstructs her face from view. Nonetheless, his heart can’t help but skip a beat as she goes on.

“ _ Any time my world is blue  
_ _ I just have to look at you  
_ _ And everything seems to be  
_ _ Some kind of wonderful. _ ”

Big Red and Ashlyn leave the corner of the shop where they were setting up the night’s snack offerings, meandering their way toward the music and the lilt of Nini’s voice, high and clear above the scratchy keyboard notes. They linger to one side for a moment until Nini turns slightly in their direction, a shadow of a smile gracing her lips as she nods encouragingly at them without breaking the song. 

Red turns to Ashlyn and dips into a deep bow. “May I have this dance?” he requests, offering a hand. 

She giggles and gives him her best renaissance fair courtsey before placing her hand in his. “You may.” 

For all of his tap dancing prowess, Big Red is a terrible slow dancer. Ashlyn is clearly leading as they circle haphazardly around the floor, his hand hovering at the small of her back. Twice, he trips over her, making her giggle even harder as he attempts to recover.

Ricky rises from his seat and crosses over toward them, grinning in amusement. He taps Ashlyn on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” he requests.

She laughs and drops Big Red’s hand, stepping aside. “All yours.” 

The best friends smile goofily at one another as they come together, and Nini tries not to laugh for fear of messing up the song while Ricky plants his hand on Big Red’s hip and Big Red’s hand finds perch on his lower back. They stumble around the floor in a dizzy circle, their movements akin to a drunk. 

“ _ Some kind of wonderful _ ,” Nini repeats, her voice nearly overtaken by the chorus of laughter. 

“You know, Red? You’re some kind of wonderful,” Ricky says when the song has finished. Applause rings out around them. 

“You know, Ricky? You’re some kind of wonderful, too.”

“Get a room, you two,” Seb teases. 

“We got a whole apartment!” Ricky fires back. He turns to Nini, dropping his voice to a murmur as he sidles up to the piano bench. “You’re some kind of wonderful, too. The wonderfulest, actually.” 

“That’s not a word,” she points out, but there’s no force behind her words. Not when he’s taken the wind out of her lungs with the way he’s looking at her: like she’s the only person who has ever existed. 

* * *

“...And  _ that  _ is why you cannot take away the performing arts at East High. They are a tradition. They are a vital part of students’ learning. And above all, they are a home for countless students like me. Thank you.” 

Nini claps her hands as Mariela gives a slight bow and sits back down, immediately reaching for her water bottle and taking a swig. “How’d I do?” she asks.

“You wrote that entirely on your own?” Nini beams.

“Well, with the help of an online thesaurus, but yes,” the girl answers. 

“If you ever decide not to pursue acting, I think you’d have a great career as a speechwriter,” Nini says. 

“It’s easy when you’re passionate about the subject,” Mariela shrugs modestly. 

“But it takes guts to get up in front of an audience and stand up for what you believe in,” Nini counters, laying a gentle hand on her student’s shoulder. “I’m so proud of the young woman you’ve become. I mean, this time last year, you were an understudy. I’d barely heard your voice. Do you remember?” 

The girl smiles fondly. “Of course. That was before you taught me that the universe has a plan.” 

“Before you became the breakout star of the East High stage,” Nini adds. “And now look at you. This movement? It wouldn’t exist without you. You’re a leader. And a good one at that.” 

“I owe it all to you.” 

Nini shakes her head. “That’s not entirely true. There was a point where I was one of the doubters."

"Maybe so," Mariela says, "But it was the push - or maybe the shove - that I needed. I wanted to prove you wrong."

"I might’ve helped," Nini concedes. "But I can only work with what I’m given. The confidence? The determination? The passion? That’s all you. Sometimes it takes others to highlight the best in ourselves, but you’ve always had it in you, Mariela. I wish I’d been more like you when I was your age.” 

“Well either way,” Mariela answers, hugging the teacher. “Thanks for inspiring me to find my voice, Ms. Salazar-Roberts. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had.” 

Nini tries to tamp down the emotions that well up inside her: pride, elation, admiration, awe before they choke her up. “Why don’t you go get a snack?” she suggests, nudging the student gently in the direction of the packages of Entenmann’s donuts in a bid to distract her from the happy tears that threaten to spill over. She watches as she heads off towards the memorabilia case, where Max is engaged in a contest with Noah to see how many donuts they can each fit in their mouths. 

“How’s it going?” Ricky’s voice is quiet and fond, his breath warm in her ear and she jumps, then immediately relaxes into him as his arms encircle her waist. 

“Good,” Nini answers honestly, twisting in his grasp so that she’s facing him. 

“These kids are really something, huh?” 

She nods. “With them in the lead,” she says, “we’re going to be alright. Regardless of how the board meeting goes.”

* * *

“Friends of the Revue-lution!” Big Red thunders in his best impersonation of a ringmaster. The chorus of singing and instrumentation and conversation peters out. “Ms. Gina Porter and the robotics club are proud to present the home of tomorrow’s revue, the East High Mobile Auditorium!” 

Gina grins sheepishly as she and a dozen robotics club members roll out on a platform with speakers and lights rigged to the side. “Every great figure in history needed a way to get around. Teddy Roosevelt had his horse. Obama had Air Force One...” 

“OJ’s Bronco,” Big Red adds. 

Gina sighs. “Sure. And we have this,” she says, gesturing to the plywood structure, held together with screws, nails, and epoxy resin. “I know it looks a little shabby,” she says, gesturing to the exposed wires taped along the sides and the wheels taken off of an abandoned shopping cart, “But it’s reliable, it’s hand-built, and it’ll get the job done.”

“Don’t forget the best part of it all,” Annie reminds her.

The math teacher nods, smiling. “We’ve also worked out a way to connect the speakers and the mic straight to the school PA system. The wiring’s all set up and hidden in the cafeteria. When we get there, we’ll be able to broadcast everything throughout the entire school. Our voices will quite literally be amplified. Just let them try to ignore us.” 

* * *

EJ tries to push down the nervous trembling that’s built up in every part of his body: his knees, his hands, his chest, his throat. It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, though he hasn’t felt it in years. Not since high school, when recruiters from all the big name schools were showing up to watch him play. 

He was raised for the spotlight. He used to love the feeling of every eye in the room trained on him, and he was never more in his element than when he jogged out onto the court to flashing cameras and cheering fans. But this isn’t a basketball court and he won’t be judged by the accuracy of his three-pointers. This time, he’ll be singing in front of a wide audience and a hostile board, and his success will be judged by whether or not he and his friends keep their jobs. 

“Ready?” Ashlyn smiles encouragingly, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Sure,” he breathes. 

She nods and doesn’t give him a chance to reconsider before she starts to play and he draws in a deep breath, feeling the air fill his diaphragm. He’s practiced day and night, sung louder than ever in the shower, rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror and cringed with each odd facial expression he made. He surprises himself when he doesn’t immediately choke on the first note that falls from his mouth and continues into the next measure smoothly.

Nini peers over at the keyboard and sees Ashlyn’s small, sideways smile as EJ Caswell sings his heart out. She doesn’t try to fight the twitch of her lips that quickly turns into a full-fledged grin, her chest welling with pride. She saunters over toward the keyboard, flanking Ashlyn and resting one hand on the instrument’s plastic side. EJ’s eyes dart towards her for a moment, and he looks away just as quickly, hoping he doesn’t end up making an idiot of himself. 

“You’re doing great,” Nini tells him, her voice floating just above the steady hum of the keyboard. 

He smiles, breathes in deep, and surges into the next verse, louder and less tentative now. He catches a few moments where he’s pitchy, but no one seems to notice.

Nini watches and drums her fingers lightly against the side of the keyboard in rhythm as Ricky sweeps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her midsection. She leans into him and glances back, catching the same proud smile on his face as he starts to rock her side-to-side in place in time with the song. Nini shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and they sway through the song, Ricky’s chin resting perfectly on her shoulder, a loose curl tickling her cheek. 

EJ catches their movement out of the corner of his eye and resolves to sing louder and more fervently. No one’s ever danced to the sound of his voice before, and he’s stunned that he’s capable of motivating anyone, let alone Ricky and Nini - the two most musical people he knows, to move simply with his singing. His heart rate quickens as he launches into the final chorus, feeling like he’s in the home stretch of a six mile run. When he finishes, he holds the note a moment longer and then cuts out, rocking on his heels as he dares himself to look at Ricky, Nini, and Ashlyn.  “How was I this time?” he asks timidly.

“You’ve done it, EJ,” his cousin says after a moment. A smile overtakes her features. “You’ve made me speechless.” 

“Like...in a good way?” he questions hopefully. 

“Dude,” Ricky says, halfway between a laugh and a gasp of awe. He charges the older man, enveloping him in what begins as a one-handed bro-hug but quickly becomes a full, frenzied, arms-around-the-middle hug that Nini and Ashlyn quickly join.

EJ’s smile is wide and radiant and devoid of the demons in his head that have - as they so often do - plagued him endlessly, trying to tear him down. Though it doesn’t take much more than a sincere compliment and a reminder of his worthiness to win that smile out of him, Nini is still happy to see that look when she pulls back from the group hug. It’s EJ in his purest form, giddy and childlike.

* * *

The bathroom becomes a revolving door of students changing into various outfits before emerging to strut their stuff before Kourtney, who applauds and cheers and finds something to compliment about each student’s look. 

“Love the sparkly bow!” she tells one cheerleader. 

“You are  _ rocking  _ the backwards cap,” she tells a boy in an oversized hoodie.

“Red is  _ definitely  _ your color,” she says to Mariela. 

“Lime green top, fuschia pants? Girl, that is  _ bold _ . I respect it,” she smiles at a small, bespectacled girl from the yearbook committee. 

“Make sure to wear a belt! You don’t wanna trip over your own pant legs!” she shouts at a boy who strolls past in baggy jeans. “Alright, listen up,” she raises her voice, commanding the attention of everyone in the shop. “If you haven’t already shown me your outfit for tomorrow, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. The important thing to know is that your clothing is an expression of who  _ you  _ are. So make sure that your outfits highlight a piece of your identity that’s important to you. The board needs to understand that you’re more than just numbers. You’re individuals with your own unique interests and passions and lives. And what better way than to show pride in who you are? When the time comes tomorrow, remember that the clothes do not wear you. You wear the clothes. The school does not define you. You define the school.” 

* * *

As the night draws to an unsteady close, Ashlyn seats herself at the keyboard for a final time and begins to play. Seb is the first to recognize the song, and he bounds over to her with a knowing smile, Nini and Ricky a half-pace behind him as he starts to sing.

“ _ One day more. _ _   
_ _ Another day, another destiny. _ _   
_ _ This never-ending road to Calvary…”  _

More and more students gravitate towards the instrument, until they’re clustered in a loose semi-circle, exchanging nervous, grinning glances with one another. The room feels restless, and even Gina is unable to keep her fingers from twitching just a little with excitement.

Ricky feels his hands shaking, feeding off the energy in the room, but the moment he turns his eyes toward Nini, a cool relief floods his veins and he goes still, gaze fixated on her face and the way she smiles gently, chin angled upward, mouthing the words to the song she knows from a high school production years ago. He knows the words, too. 

“ _ I did not live until today _ ,” they harmonize. “ _ How can I live when we are parted? _ ” 

The song continues, Ashlyn’s smile growing wider and her movements more emphatic with each passing measure as students and teachers alike drop in and out, singing the words they know. 

In a move that surprises even his cousin, EJ pipes up,

“ _ One more day before the storm. _ _   
_ _ At the barricades of freedom. _ _   
_ _ When our ranks begin to form, _ _   
_ _ Will you take your place with me? _ ”

He reaches out with his hand, catching Gina’s eye. She smirks as she places her right hand in his left as Ricky slips his hand into his right and holds out his other hand for Nini. One-by-one, they form a twisting chain of hands joined together, building toward a crescendo.

“ _ One day to a new beginning. _ _   
_ _ Raise the flag of freedom high. _ _   
_ _ Every man will be a king. _ _   
_ _ Every man will be a king. _ _   
_ _ There’s a new world for the winning. _ _   
_ _ There’s a new world to be won. _ _   
_ _ Do you hear the people sing? _ ”

Ricky glances around the room at the assembled faces, locking eyes with each student, with Seb, with Big Red, with Kourtney and EJ and Gina and Ashlyn, finally settling on Nini beside him. His heart swells to the point that he feels dizzy.

“ _ Tomorrow we’ll be far away. _ _   
_ _ Tomorrow is the judgment day. _ _   
_ _ Tomorrow we’ll discover what our god in heaven has in store. _ _   
_ _ One more dawn. _ _   
_ _ One more day. _ _   
_ _ One day more. _ ”

* * *

When he and Nini finally crawl into bed that night, neither of them are able to fall asleep. Ricky lies in bed with Nini tight to his chest, watching her eyelids flutter shut only to reopen again a second later. They lock eyes, and he presses a soft kiss to her forehead. There is no going back, and he knows he should be terrified. And yet, with the comforting weight of Nini resting against him, her shoulders tense with nervous energy that he seeks to relieve with firm, careful kneading, he feels more at-ease than he has in weeks.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another montage chapter, and the last one before the revue itself! I can't wait to share what's next, especially because the revue chapters take on a slightly different format mainly centered around one of the main characters per chapter. But that's for later. For now, I would LOVE to hear your thoughts on this chapter!
> 
> The school year has officially ended for me in a bittersweet way. While I didn't get to say goodbye to my kids in person, it is nice to have a lot more free time to pursue projects like this (and future installments in this universe because I'm not done playing in this AU sandbox yet). What I'm saying is, hopefully updates will be a bit more regular from now on. 
> 
> Chapter title from "Les Miserables" of course!


	16. Do You Hear The People Sing?

Ricky cups his hands beneath the faucet and dips his head to let the cool water run down his face. He blinks away the drops that tangle in his eyelashes and reaches for the towel, scrubbing his face in the vain hope of feeling more awake than he is. He considers his bedhead: curls lopsided and askew, and he is tempted to break out the gel and slick his hair back the way his mother used to on elementary school picture days, lamenting how unruly his hair was. Kourtney’s advice echoes in his head, urging him to express himself through his appearance. He runs a brush through it like he would on any other day, taming his loose tendrils before hazarding one more glance at his reflection. His eyes are slightly sunken, weighed down by heavy bags. 

When he emerges from the bathroom, he finds Nini sitting cross-legged at the dining table, phone in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. She’s already set his out, and it sits steaming and ready on the placemat across from her.

“Good morning,” he murmurs for the second time today, easing himself into the seat. 

“Good morning,” she hums, smiling softly over the rim of her mug. She catches the slight shake of his hand when he raises his cup to his lips, and the incessant bouncing of his right leg is a telltale sign of his anxiousness.

Her own stomach twists. The knots that formed over the course of their sleepless night seem to grow ever tighter, bringing waves of nausea with them. She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth and sets her cup down, frowning against the backlit screen of her phone and failing to process any of the words and images on her Instagram. She’s interrupted by the feeling of Ricky’s callused fingertips gently encircling her wrist. She looks up at him, puzzled.

“You’re doing that thing with your lip,” he says softly. “You only do that when you’re anxious.” 

She smiles self-consciously, releasing her bottom lip from between her teeth. “And you’re doing that thing where you can’t stop bouncing your leg,” she points out. “Plus your hands are shaking.” 

He purses his lips and nods. “Guess we’re both anxious.” 

“Yeah,” she breathes, focusing on the sensation of his hand around hers. The anxiety that roiled through her stomach and buzzed within her veins starts to settle, discharging like a grounded wire. Gradually, the intervals between each bounce of his leg widen until he’s no longer bouncing his leg at all. 

A stillness blankets the condo, and for a moment Nini wonders if she’s about to wake up from the strangest and most vivid dream. The past few weeks hardly feel real. Hell, the past year hardly feels real. And now, on the precipice of the most consequential decision of her career, she wonders if she’s making the right choice. At the same time, it’s far too late to go back now. The old Nini - the Nini from a year ago - would have spent too much time dwelling on whether or not the grass would be greener on the other side. But with Ricky and their friends at her side, she finds herself no longer wondering at all. 

“I love you,” she says quietly and easily, as if she’s just thinking out loud. 

Ricky’s grip tightens for a moment, a reassuring squeeze. “I love you, too.” 

* * *

East High tailgates are a big deal, usually bringing a full parking lot, an endless amount of coolers, piles of discarded soda cans, and a sea of red-and-white spirit wear. Though never a member of the football team or its coaching staff, games were an inevitable part of student life and EJ always made a point of showing up to support his alma mater and his colleagues. 

The parking lot resembles a tailgate now, but the atmosphere is all wrong. There are no pickup trucks with “Go Leopards” painted on the windows, no SUVs with their trunks open and hoards of teenagers crammed inside. Though the parking lot is full and students mill about aimlessly between spaces, there is no air of excitement. The mood is grim, more like a funeral than a celebration. He forces a tight grin as he emerges from his Jeep and hopes that the funeral will be for Mazzara’s STEM initiatives and not the musical. Or their jobs. 

He spots Max lingering with a few other basketball players, varsity jackets slung over their jerseys. “Coach!” the teen hurries over, hands shoved firmly in his jacket pockets. 

The coach’s smile widens slightly. “You ready?” he asks the player.

Max shrugs. “I think I’m more nervous about this than about any game I’ve ever played,” he confesses.

“That’s good,” EJ says. 

“It is?”

He nods. “It is. Because what you’re fighting for matters so much more than any game you’ve ever played. This isn’t just about you or the team. This is about the whole school. And the board’s about to see exactly the kind of drive and determination that earned the Leopards three state titles.”

“We play to win,” Max says, punctuating the statement with a nervous chuckle. 

* * *

Gina pulls into a parking space beside Seb’s truck and emerges from her car, straightening the wrinkles in her black blouse and checking her watch. Ten minutes until the meeting starts. Forty until public comments are allowed. She approaches her friends, clustered in a circle around a row of empty parking spaces. 

“I didn’t think this many people would show,” Seb says to the group as she approaches. 

“We had a pretty good turnout during rehearsals,” Ashlyn points out. 

“Yeah, but showing up when it’s all fun and games and practice is one thing. Showing up when push comes to shove is another.” 

Gina slips easily into an empty space between EJ and Seb, folding her arms and rocking on her heels. It’s strangely quiet. Students gather in groups without speaking more than a few pleasantries to one another, and while they might normally distract themselves with their phones, their hands are empty today. For the most part, they just glance between one another, emitting small, uncertain laughs with grim smiles plastered to their faces.

At 3:00, the board meeting begins with strict formalities. Attendance is taken. The agenda is read into the record. In the parking lot, the clock ticks off the minutes, marking time until the meeting is opened for public comments. Every second feels like an hour. Ashlyn twists locks of her hair in her hands. Ricky drums a rhythm against his thigh with his fingertips. Seb fidgets from side to side, starting up an absentminded heel-toe pattern with his right foot. Nini chews her bottom lip and Gina has to consciously stop herself from twisting her watch round and round on her wrist. 

“Weather’s nice,” EJ comments. The entire group bursts into laughter that is a little too loud and a little too forced. The tension in the air quickly dissipates, and suddenly they are able to draw oxygen into their lungs again. He feigns innocence. “Did I say something wrong?” 

“No,” Gina jumps in, still giggling. “No, you’re right. It’s a beautiful day for a revolution.” 

“A revue-lution,” Seb corrects. 

As 3:30 draws nearer, they assemble the students, staff, and members of the public. The parking lot has grown steadily fuller, until the number of cars and people present resembles a normal school day and not a Saturday afternoon. Gina retrieves the rolling stage from the back of Seb’s pickup truck, and it is quickly decided that Mariela should be the one to ride in on it. 

“Any wise words from our leaders?” Seb asks, turning to Nini and Ricky. 

“We’re not the leaders,” Ricky answers. “You all are,” he gestures to the students. 

“This wouldn’t have happened without you,” Nini adds, smiling at Mariela. “So we’ll turn it over to you. Any wise words from our leaders?” 

Mariela smiles back. “Just this: Viva la revue-lution!” 

* * *

“The board will now hear public comments on the matter of the amended budget,” Principal Gutierrez announces, glancing around the empty cafeteria. “Let the record show that there are no public -” 

He is interrupted by a murmur, distant and indistinct at first, but drawing nearer and nearer until the words become clear and intelligible. A cacophony of voices rumble in a singular chant, “Hey, hey! Ho, ho! You can’t take away our show! Hey, hey! Ho, ho! You can’t take away our show!” 

The voices continue to grow louder until the cafeteria doors burst open. Mariela enters first, on top of the mobile stage, rolled by Noah, Rynn, Devin, Annie, and Max. Dozens of students follow behind: football and basketball players in their jerseys, cheerleaders in full uniform backflipping across the floor, art club members in paint-splattered smocks, yearbook photographers with cameras poised, students from nearly every club, dressed in shirts emblazoned with their logos: robotics, literary magazine, key club, gardening club, the gay-straight alliance, all chanting together, “Hey, hey! Ho, ho! You can’t take away our show!” 

The teachers bring up the rear. Ricky and Nini march side-by-side with EJ, Gina, Seb, Ashlyn, and as many faculty members as they could persuade to show up. As the group files in rowdily, they are followed by Big Red, Kourtney, and other members of the community: parents, grandparents, siblings, friends. Ricky spots Nini’s moms among the crowd. 

“I’m sorry,” Gutierez begins, “but the time for public comments is closed.” His voice is drowned out by the din of students, teachers, and community members joining in the chant. 

The stage comes to a halt in front of the table where Mazzara and the board members sit in their immaculately-pressed business attire. Mariela looks the superintendent in the eye as those accompanying her begin to take seats at the tables and chairs spread throughout the cafeteria, flanking the board on all sides. 

“You asked for public comments,” Mariela begins. “Well, the public has just a few.” 

Principal Gutierrez grins nervously at the board, sweat beading on his brow. He quickly dabs at it with a handkerchief. “Uh, I’m sorry but public comments are now closed and-” 

Mr. Mazzara holds up a hand. His face is stoic, but his heavy eyebrows are knit ever-so-slightly. He leans forward in his seat, expression unreadable but undoubtedly interested. “We didn’t close the comments portion yet,” he says. “So I believe this time belongs to the public.” He gestures to Mariela to continue. 

She clears her throat and holds his gaze a moment longer before directing her eyes meaningfully at each board member. “Mr. Mazzara, Principal Gutierrez, members of the Salt Lake City Board of Education. We are gathered today - not just a handful of kids, but as a collective body of students, teachers, parents, family members, and friends - to say that we are appalled by the proposed new budget. We are outraged that this budget leaves no room for the arts at East High. We are disappointed that you are prepared to sacrifice the well-rounded education of your students for the sake of prestige. And we are here to tell you that you can’t take away our show. You can’t take away our art club, our music program. You can’t take away sports and extracurriculars. And above all, you can’t take away our voices.

You’ll be hearing testimony from a lot of people today - faculty and students alike. I will not speak for them, because they will have the chance to speak for themselves. But I would like to start with a story about a shy girl who doubted herself and how the East High stage helped change that. I’ve always been interested in theater and performing, but up until last year I was never really comfortable onstage. I was part of the ensemble or an understudy, but I was never the star or ever a secondary character. That changed last year thanks to Ms. Salazar-Roberts, Mr. Bowen, and a whole bunch of coincidences that I can only describe as the universe handing me an opportunity. 

Last year, I was cast as the understudy for Belle in our school’s production of  _ Beauty and the Beast _ . I was okay with that. Or so I thought. It didn’t matter to me that I would only appear onstage as a member of the ensemble since, let’s be honest, how often do you ever need an understudy in a high school musical? But then, our lead dropped out and suddenly it was my turn to be the star. I didn’t know how to do it. I doubted myself. I was ready to quit. Sometimes, it even felt like everyone else was ready to quit on me. Ms. Salazar-Roberts and Mr. Bowen worked with me every day, and we had our ups and downs, too, but in the end I found myself so much better for it. I got to sing my heart out. People finally heard me. And now look at me. I’m up here in front of all of you, and that’s something the Mariela of last year never would’ve imagined doing. That’s the power of the arts. That’s the reason we need extracurriculars like drama and art club and theater and photography and sports. They give us confidence. They help us find ourselves.

And  _ that  _ is why you cannot take away the performing arts - or any arts, or any activities - at East High. They are a tradition, just as much as our sports teams or our pioneering STEM programs. They are an important part of students’ school experience. How many of us come to school just for chemistry and math and English? We might love those subjects, but school is also about making friends and participating in clubs. And to show you just how vital the arts are at East High, we have assembled a sampling of the immense talent you’ll find in our classrooms. You may have taken the musical from us, but you cannot take away the music itself. It is my pleasure to announce the first ever East High Musical Revue-Lution, an assembly of songs, skits, and speeches to show you why we need our arts programs more than ever.” 

“We don’t really have time-” Principal Gutierrez interrupts. 

Kourtney jumps up from her seat. “There’s no time limit on public comments. At least not according to this agenda. Let her speak! Let everyone speak!” 

A murmur goes up among the crowd as members of the public voice their approval. Gutierrez dabs nervously at his forehead and takes his seat again. Mr. Mazzara gestures to Mariela, indicating she may proceed.

“To begin,” she says, voice even. “I would like to invite Ms. Ashlyn Caswell to the stage to say a few words about why the arts matter to her.” 

A smattering of applause goes up among the audience as Ashlyn rises and smiles, straightening out her pale blue dress and walking the few feet to the stage. Mariela places the microphone back on its stand and steps aside for the redhead. 

Ashlyn clears her throat and speaks into the microphone. “Ashlyn Moon Caswell,” she introduces herself. “History teacher. Taxpayer. Concerned citizen. And as a history teacher, I thought I would demonstrate to Mr. Mazzara and the board what my discipline involves with a brief lesson on the history of tyrants.” 

Mazzara arches a brow but says nothing. 

Ashlyn smiles readily and presses on. “What is a tyrant? Well, the dictionary defines a tyrant as a cruel and oppressive leader. Today, I’d like to focus on the oppressive aspect of that definition. Oppression involves subjugating a group of people. It occurs when those in power take away the agency of those they lead. And as you’ll see, people rarely take oppression lying down.” 

She pauses as members of the audience begin to rise from their seats. Ricky takes out his pitch pipe and blows into it, emitting a low tone that is soon taken up by the hums of those gathered. Quietly at first, but quickly gathering steam, they begin to sing. 

“ _ Do you hear the people sing? _ _   
_ _ Singing the song of angry men? _ _   
_ _ It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again. _ ”

“Let’s begin with some well-known historical examples,” Ashlyn continues. “Who can forget Julius Caesar, murdered in the Senate by his own colleagues and friends on the Ides of March? Or Caligula, remembered only as insane and sadistic. He, too, was murdered by those he trusted, including Senators, courtiers, and his own bodyguards. 

Moving forward in time, we see such examples as Ivan the Terrible, whose legacy is clear enough from his name. In his brutality, he accidentally killed his eldest son and only competent heir. As a result, he doomed Russia to years of infighting, anarchy, and turmoil. And who can forget Henry VIII? Most remember him for his part in England’s breakaway from the Catholic Church and for his use of execution to consolidate his power. His victims included two of his wives. In his day, Henry was seen as incredibly powerful. But by the end of his life, he was covered in boils, possibly full of gout, and needed the assistance of many mechanical contraptions just to help him move about. Not exactly the most kingly of deaths.

How about another crowd favorite: Robespierre? In the beginning, he seemed to be all about freeing people from oppression. The French aristocrats increased taxes on the common people, but paid no taxes themselves. Poverty and famine were widespread. Robespierre came to power on the promise of freeing the people from these conditions. Instead, he attempted to hold onto power by bringing about a bloody reign of terror that led to the deaths of thousands. By the end of the French Revolution, Robespierre’s people had turned against him for his brutality, and he was guillotined. 

Of course, let’s not forget that tyrants exist in more recent history, too. Take Pol Pot of Cambodia, for example. His Khmer Rouge party purged anyone they believed to be against them during the Vietnam War Era, and his economic policies led to starvation across the country. Almost a quarter of Cambodia’s population died under his rule, and his name is now synonymous with brutality and genocide. In fact, in Cambodia he is known as the ‘Contemptible Pot.’”

She pauses, allowing the students’ voices to fade in once more. 

_ When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums  
_ _ There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes _ .

She holds the superintendent’s gaze. “I’ve always been a caretaker,” she says, as if her words are addressed to him directly. “I’ve always been the type to listen to people’s problems and offer advice. But working here at East High and being involved in the arts has helped me evolve beyond just taking care of others. It’s allowed me to help them find a voice. In my time here, I’ve co-moderated the art club. I’ve helped with sets for the musical. I’ve been on the planning committee for the Renaissance Fair, which many students participate in. History shows, and my experience confirms, that the arts give voice to those who would not normally be visible. They give voice to those who might otherwise be oppressed. And my favorite memories from my time here at East High involve the arts in some way. The arts give our students a chance to shine, Mr. Mazzara. And in your quest to boost this school’s prestige, you’ve robbed so many talented and brilliant minds of that opportunity. 

What you need to decide, then, is how you want to be remembered in the annals of East High history. Will you be the one who stole the voice of the student body? Will you take away the institutions they love in pursuit of your own interests? Because if so, that sounds a lot like tyranny to me. And here at East High, we say ‘ _ sic semper tyrannis _ .’ You can’t silence the sound of hundreds of voices singing!” 

Ashlyn raises her arms triumphantly, and this time the students’ voices are thunderous in their fervor. She joins them, her voice rich and even over the microphone, echoing through the halls of the school through the hijacked PA system. 

_ Do you hear the people sing? _ _   
_ _ Singing the song of angry men? _ _   
_ _ It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again. _ __   
_ When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums _ _   
_ __ There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my humblest apologies for the delay in getting this out. I'm in the middle of apartment hunting, which is quite the ordeal in the age of Covid. On top of that, my internet is back but then my power went out (go figure). Anyway, we have officially begun the revue! I'm excited to get the chance to dive into each character a bit more during their speech, and I hope you'll enjoy reading about their stories too. 
> 
> Title from "Les Miserables" as well, and also from the overall title of this fic.


	17. This Is Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I went on a writing tear and banged this chapter out, so I'm proud to present it to you now. This is by far one of the most emotional chapters I planned, and I'm pleased with how it came out. I hope that you'll find something of value or something to relate to here. It involves Seb telling his story, and just a warning - there are references to homophobia here (nothing explicit and hopefully nothing triggering). There are a lot of elements of this chapter that I personally related to, and I hope that you'll find the same. And if you'd like to talk more about the themes here (or anything, really), you can find me on tumblr at ebi-pers! In any case, please enjoy.

When the song finishes, the students remain standing. Their applause is thunderous, drowning out Principal Gutierrez’s cries for order. Ashlyn offers the superintendent a final, satisfied grin and courtseys to the board. “It is now my pleasure to bring up Mr. Seb Matthew-Smith,” she announces, stepping off the platform as Seb rises from his seat and makes his way over. He mounts the stage tentatively, subconsciously adjusting his glasses despite the fact that they haven’t moved. 

“Good afternoon,” he says, a little too close to the microphone and immediately flushing red. He adjusts the device and tries again. “Good afternoon Mr. Mazzara, board of ed, and all of our friends that are here today.” He dips his head shyly, trying desperately to ignore the warm blush that works its way across his cheeks. He inwardly curses his pale complexion and forces a wider smile. “My name is Seb Matthew-Smith. I’m a part-time dance teacher here at East High, and a choreographer and dance instructor at an academy in Salt Lake City. I am also a graduate of these hallowed halls. I would like to share a few words about what the arts at East High have meant to me throughout my life.” 

He pauses, feeling the warmth spread from his cheeks to his neck and down his body. He fidgets with the collar of his shirt and wishes he was as graceful in front of an audience as Carlos, as calm and collected as Gina, as confident as EJ or Ashlyn. He wishes he was as bold and fearless as Kourtney, as easygoing and charming as Big Red, as inspirational as Ricky or as good with words as Nini, and though he’s run this speech by her time and time again, he finds his mind going blank as he tries to remember where to begin. 

Ricky senses his hesitation and plays a note on his pitch pipe that is immediately taken up by the students. Seb exhales, louder than he intended but still barely audible over the rumble of kids humming the tune of the song he’s chosen. 

“ _ I am not a stranger to the dark _ ,” they begin to sing. “ _ Hide away, they say, ‘cause we don’t want your broken parts. _ ”

Seb draws in a deep breath, gives them his most dazzling smile, and begins. “When I was six years old, I told my parents I wanted to be a dancer. I saw some ballerinas spinning round and round on TV and I was captivated. I didn’t know that this was an odd request for a boy. I just knew that I wanted to spin round and round. And since I’m one of eight siblings, my parents were used to all sorts of hobbies and interests. So at age six, I started my first dance class and I loved every second.”

His smile fades. “But something changed when I went to school that Monday and told my friends I started dance class. All the boys said that it was weird. They told me dancing was for girls. I thought they were lying. We all danced, didn’t we? We all did the Cha Cha Slide and the Electric Slide and the Cotton-Eye Joe and the Macarena at birthday parties. But they said that was different, and that was the first time I felt like I wasn’t the same as everyone else.”

“ _ I’ve learned to be ashamed of all my scars. _ _  
_ _ Run away, they say _ _  
_ _ No one will love you as you are _ .” 

“I didn’t want to stop dancing. There was something so freeing and fun about moving my body in a way that was purposeful. It was hard work, but it was satisfying. I kept at it. It didn’t make things any easier at school. Other boys my age did Little League or Cub Scouts. I did pirouettes. It didn’t bother my family one bit that I preferred to dance, but it bothered me that the other boys would make fun of me. 

As I got older, the teasing got worse. I learned to feel ashamed of the thing that brought me the most joy. I tried to ignore the put-downs and insults. I tried to laugh them off. Sometimes, I would try to overcompensate. I would tell them that I danced so I would be surrounded by beautiful girls. But that wasn’t true. I danced because it made me feel free. I danced because dance was the only place I was truly, fully, totally comfortable in my own skin.” 

He pauses, acutely aware of the fact that his voice has risen in pitch and volume. He feels a lump forming at the back of his throat.  _ Keep it together, Seb.  _ “I wasn’t the only boy in my dance class, but the girls outnumbered us by a lot. The other boys didn’t seem to be bothered by this fact. They didn’t seem to be victims of the same type of teasing I was. I thought it was something wrong with me, specifically. The people I danced with, though? They always saw me for who I was. They didn’t care that I was a boy who danced. To them, I wasn’t too weird or too girly. I was just Seb Matthew-Smith.

By the time I got to high school, I realized that dance wasn’t the only thing that made me different from most boys my age. I also realized that I was gay.” He pauses and waits. For a moment, it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. In his time working at East High, and indeed for most of his adult life, he’s made no efforts to hide his orientation. Quite the opposite. He made every effort to embrace and demonstrate his pride in his identity, and he’s reasonably sure that most people knew even without being explicitly told. It is one thing for them to know and acknowledge his identity. It is another for him to talk about it plainly and openly in front of so many people. It takes him a moment to realize that the only person holding their breath is himself. 

He locks eyes with Nini, who smiles and nods encouragingly at him. Beside her, Ricky beams at him and EJ shoots him a thumbs up. He finds his friends’ eyes one-by-one, noting the looks of approval and acceptance and support in each. Gina, Kourtney, Big Red, Ashlyn. Every student. Even Mr. Mazzara seems to be hanging onto every word, leaning forward in his chair with a pensive expression. He presses on. 

“I guess it wasn’t too much of a surprise to those who knew me best. When I told my family, all they did was smile warmly and tell me they loved me no matter what. When I told my friends at dance class, they all gave me hugs. Some of them had recently come out, too. I was surrounded by so much love and support.” He feels himself welling up, his voice becoming strangled as he tries and fails to hold back the first few tears that drip down his face, smudging his glasses. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick. Nini surges forward from the crowd, tissue box in hand, her own eyes shining with unspilled tears. He plucks one gracefully from the box and dabs at his eyes.

“Where was I?” he says after regaining his composure with a deep breath and a radiant smile. “I was surrounded by so much love and support. But when I came out to my classmates, things changed. By and large, East High was an accepting community, and the vast majority of the people I told were nothing but positive and welcoming. Unfortunately, word gets around and not everyone has good intentions. While most of my classmates supported me, some did not. They went from calling me girly to calling me slurs I can’t bring myself to repeat. On the worst days, I regretted coming out as much as I regretted starting dance all those years ago.” 

When he pauses to dab at his eyes again, his students start to fill in, their voices small and trembling but building with power with each word:

“ _ I won’t let them break me down to dust. _ _  
_ _ I know that there’s a place for us. _ _  
_ _ For we are glorious.” _

“I was tired of being different,” Seb picks up again. “But different is the only thing I knew how to be. So I still went to dance class, and in fact, I danced my heart out even more. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about having fun anymore. It was about being truly  _ free _ . That was when I discovered how powerful movement can be. I could take all my shame and my hurt and my frustration and my anger, and I could channel it into every muscle in my body. I couldn’t control the things people said about me, or the way they looked at me. But I could control my arms, my legs, my head. There was  _ purpose _ to my dancing. I could express all the things bottled inside me.”

“ _ When the sharpest words wanna cut me down, _ _  
_ _ I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out. _ _  
_ _ I am brave, I am bruised _ _  
_ _ I am who I’m meant to be. _ _  
_ _ This is me. _ ”

“I threw myself into dancing even more than I had before. I studied different styles. I took classes with different teachers. I started to choreograph my own routines, and I realized that everyone has struggles. Everyone suffers. But for a dancer, movement can be a form of healing. It can be a way to tell the world what words can’t convey. When I put together a routine and taught it and watched it performed, I saw a stage full of dancers telling my story. But more than that, I saw a stage full of dancers who knew my story, who  _ felt  _ my story, and who added their stories to mine. I realized that dancing has power. And I decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my life bringing that sense of empowerment to others.”

“ _ Look out, ‘cause here I come. _ _  
_ _ And I’m marching on to the beat I drum. _ _  
_ _ I’m not scared to be seen. _ _  
_ _ I make no apologies. _ _  
_ _ This is me _ .” 

“Since then, I’ve had the pleasure of working with many dancers. I’ve seen so many people of all ages grow to discover the beauty and power that lies within them. I’ve watched them tell stories they’ve never felt comfortable telling, or have never had the words to tell, all through the way their bodies moved. Last year, when Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen invited me back to this stage, I couldn’t say no. And when East High followed up with an offer of employment, I jumped at the chance. Because East High is where I discovered what it truly means to be different, and why that isn’t a bad thing.

I’ve only been teaching here for a few weeks, but I’ve already come to know my dancers as a talented group of young people with powerful messages to convey. They’re the reason I’m here this afternoon. I’ve seen how dance has empowered them to express their joy, their sadness, their anger, their anxiety, and every other emotion you can think of. And they’ve prepared a short routine to show you just how meaningful dance can be.” 

He smiles at his students who wait off to the side. The singing resumes, and he joins in the chorus as his dancers rush in front of the stage, their bodies moving in perfect sync as the song continues. 

“ _ Another round of bullets hits my skin. _ _  
_ _ Well fire away, ‘cause today, I won’t let the shame sink in. _ _  
_ _ We are bursting through the barricades and reaching for the sun. _ _  
_ _ We are warriors! Yeah, that’s what we’ve become. _

_ I won’t let them break me down to dust. _ _  
_ _ I know that there’s a place for us. _ _  
_ _ For we are glorious! _ ” 

The students finish the routine with a series of freestyle moves in a variety of styles, a flurry of spins and leaps and lifts and dips that somehow coalesces into a singular, cohesive finale. As suddenly as they appeared onstage, they scatter, and the students’ voices cut off abruptly. 

“Mr. Mazzara,” Seb says, addressing the superintendent directly. “On the first day of school, you told me that you didn’t know of any other school in the region that offered dance as a PE elective. You told me that you didn’t see the point, that even the least athletically-inclined student could muddle through a game of softball for forty minutes. And while I know you didn’t mean for it to sound disrespectful, you nonetheless devalued my work and the work of my fellow teachers in the physical education department. I’ve thought long and hard about how to respond to you, and I’ve come up with my answer.

You may not see the point, but I think today’s demonstration - and the routine you just witnessed, which was almost entirely developed by the students themselves - proves the value of dance. The arts should be an inclusive space, where everyone feels welcome to participate. Returning to East High with these incredible students and amazing faculty, I felt like we were striving for that ideal and making good progress. Your decision to defund these programs made me feel small. It reminded me of the same taunts and jabs that I received since grade school. Only this time, I won’t be quiet about it. I can’t. Not when my students have messages to convey. 

Our arts programs, our extracurriculars - the things that allow our students to socialize and explore their interests and themselves - unite us. They make East High a more welcoming place, where everyone can feel comfortable in their own skin. They make it so that a student who isn’t athletically-inclined doesn’t have to muddle through forty minutes of softball and feel ostracized. That’s what we are here to fight for today. This song may say ‘this is me,’ but really, this is us. All of us. And we won’t let you stop us.” 

With that, Seb takes a step back from the microphone, holds his arms out, and smiles dazzlingly as the chorus of students resumes, his voice joining them. 

“ _ When the sharpest words wanna cut me down, _ _  
_ _ I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out. _ _  
_ _ I am brave, I am bruised _ _  
_ _ I am who I’m meant to be. _ _  
_ _ This is me. _

_ Look out, ‘cause here I come. _ _  
_ _ And I’m marching on to the beat I drum. _ _  
_ _ I’m not scared to be seen. _ __  
_ I make no apologies. _ _  
_ __ This is me. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? I would love to hear your thoughts. These revue chapters will be shorter than the narrative ones, but I hope the format seems logical. Title is from The Greatest Showman, which I know isn't technically a Broadway show (yet) but it fit so perfectly, so I made the exception.
> 
> Next up: EJ! I've already hinted a little bit at his song choice (it's also not from a Broadway show) so I wonder if anyone can take a guess. 
> 
> Thank you for all the support as always, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on Seb's story!


	18. We're All In this Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll with writing this story, and I'm having so much fun. Of course, now that I'm in a flow, my technology issues continue to pile up... Now my laptop charger isn't charging my computer. Ugh. So I'm relegated to using the shared desktop in my household until my new charger gets here and *fingers crossed* the problem is solved. Anyway, I'm happy to share with you this new chapter, in which EJ shares his story with the world! Enjoy!

As Seb steps down from the stage, the cafeteria erupts into applause. Nini races to his side, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug that he returns. She is joined seconds later by Ricky, and soon a group of his friends and his students surround him, encircling him in an overwhelming display of affection, bringing tears to his eyes that smudge the lenses of his glasses as he lets out a watery laugh of appreciation and tries to hug each of them back in turn. 

Finally, when the activity subsides, Principal Gutierrez leans into his microphone, glancing nervously back at Mr. Mazzara. “Um, if the public comments are finished…” 

Mariela stands on her tiptoes, raising her small frame above the group to glare defiantly at the principal. “Finished? We’re just getting started!” she declares. 

For the next half hour, group after group takes the stage. Members of the art club unfurl protest banners and create a quick, live sketch of scenes from various revolutions throughout history. Noah and Rynn reenact a scene from  _ Richard II _ , but not before educating the board on the play’s significance in inspiring an uprising of its own. The marching band performs a blaring, spirit-rousing rendition of “Revolution” by the Beatles with Devin’s trumpet soaring above the other instruments. Seb’s dancers perform a second routine set to Nina Cried Power, a chorus of students’ voices joining the music.

The spectacle unfolds in a dizzying display of art and music and theater. With each act, Nini’s veins course with adrenaline and her heart skips a beat with each thunderous boom of a drum, each defiant wail of a horn, each passionate hum of a voice delivering a song or a monologue. She’s no stranger to protests. Growing up with two moms in an era before same-sex marriage was a nationwide right, she often found herself at demonstrations before she even fully understood the gravity of what she was fighting for: the very right for her parents’ love to exist. She stood outside the statehouse, pride flag clutched in her small hand and hot June sun beating down on her, Mama C fretting over whether she was hydrated enough and Mama D regularly reapplying sunscreen on her cheeks, her nose, the tips of her ears in between taking up chants that spread through the crowd like wildfire. She always loved the atmosphere of these demonstrations: eager and electric, as if change might unfold before their very eyes in that exact moment. And while the process of change was far more gradual and arduous than she was led to believe, the hope that such events embodied never left her. She feels that same energy now, charged and fervent, hurtling headlong toward a crescendo. And this time, she knows, change must unfold before her very eyes if it is to unfold at all.

Ricky catches the way Nini’s eyes shine and smiles to himself. His heart skips a beat with each new act that sets foot on the hastily-fabricated stage, their voices and instruments and sound booming over the speakers and across the school. His blood feels warm, like his veins are on fire, and the sensation makes him want to jump onto a table or join the dancers. Aside from a brief appearance at a high school student council meeting, where he turned out in support of laxer dress code policies, he’s never found himself at a real protest. They were the sort of thing he saw unfold on television and heard about in the songs that he blasted a little too loudly for his mother or Todd’s liking. They were the sort of things he dreamed of attending: a real chance to show those in power that they still answered to those beneath them. But while his friends spent their time tagging walls with spray paint as an act of rebellion, he spent his time writing songs that mirrored the messages he heard. This demonstration is mild, he knows, and the fight they’ve chosen may not be consequential in the grand scheme of the universe. But to these kids and this community, this fight is everything. To him, this fight is everything. So he’ll give it everything he has. 

Gina resists the urge to pat herself on the back as performer after performer troupes across the stage. The platform, despite its shabby appearance, holds up magnificently and the speakers continue to thunder their bass across the floor of the cafeteria, and she gives Annie the thumbs up, grinning proudly at their work. The vibrations from the sound system are so strong that they carry through her shoes, up her spine, and into her jaw. 

The organized chaos of the demonstration is nothing new to her. She saw New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. She was on the ground in Galveston the day after Hurricane Ike made landfall. She stood on a beach in Monmouth County, New Jersey shortly after Hurricane Sandy. In every case, she witnessed neighbors rally together to help each other amid the devastation. There is an organized chaos to every occasion in which a community comes together, and while this revue may include more singing and dancing than she’s used to, it’s not all too different. 

She reminds herself that every disaster zone she’s ever lived in has eventually recovered, often to the point that the disaster only exists as a memory in the minds of those who experienced it. While she and her mother often moved on before the rubble was fully cleared and the towns were rebuilt, the communities they served emerged triumphant in the end. East High is no disaster zone. Its walls are stable, the ceiling tiles devoid of water damage and the floors clear of floodwaters. But what they’re fighting to save is as important as any home or business or artifact evacuated from the ruins of a hurricane. And with each throb of the bass through her body, she believes more and more that they, too, will emerge triumphant. 

Seb seizes the mic, his voice echoing throughout the cafeteria as he pants, trying to catch his breath after jumping in with the other dancers. “I would now like to call to the stage Mr. EJ Caswell,” he says raggedly, eyes scanning the crowd as the aforementioned coach emerges. He smiles radiantly at him and gives his shoulder a light squeeze as he steps offstage, making room for him. 

EJ looks out at the audience. His basketball players have taken a respectful knee in the front row, joined soon after by the football players and cheerleaders. The sight alone is enough to make him well up, and he releases a shaky breath. Nini nods to him slowly, almost imperceptibly, an affirmation of her belief in him. He brings his gaze back to the board members and finds himself staring directly into Mr. Mazzara’s dark eyes. He wets his lips and moves his trembling hands to adjust the mic. 

He’s not nervous about addressing a crowd. He’s done it countless times before. EJ Caswell lives for the attention, the microphones in his face, the chance to be heard. While his college teammates used to dread post-game press conferences, he lapped them up. But he never had to sing during those press conferences. He’s never had to perform a song number when addressing a gym full of cheering Leopards fans on gameday. None of his pre-game pep talks have ever included choreography, and despite Ashlyn’s and Nini’s and Ricky’s assurances that he’s ready, despite Seb’s insistence that memorizing choreography is no more complicated than memorizing a defensive play, he finds himself wanting to back down now. Instead, he clears his throat and presses forward.

“Good afternoon. My name is Eric James Caswell. Most people know me as EJ, or as Coach.” He swallows and manages a tight grin, almost appeasing in its nature, and immediately forces the look from his face, reminding himself that the people in power assembled before him are not meant to be appeased. He pauses and waits for the students’ voices to fade in, a soft chant that turns into a melodic chorus. 

“ _ Together, together, together everyone.”  _

A feeling builds in his chest, similar to the anticipation and pride that accompanies the start of a game, when he gathers his players around him in a huddle in the locker room and reminds them that they are formidable, capable, and prepared. He beams the way he does on the sidelines. 

“Growing up, I was the star of my own world,” he says. “I’m an only child, and my parents spent a lot of time making sure that I would be ready to continue the Caswell legacy. It’s not an easy legacy to live up to,” he adds. “I was taught from a young age that it’s all about  _ who  _ you know, not just  _ what  _ you know. My mom became an assistant US attorney because of her connections. My dad founded a bunch of successful companies and got elected to city council because people knew and liked and trusted him. They threw parties every weekend to cultivate those connections. They took part in community events to meet new people. And when I started to show an interest in basketball, suddenly my parents started signing me up for lessons in addition to the local rec league.”

For a moment, he gets lost in the memory of those middle school summers: playing rec basketball for fun with his friends, then immediately being whisked off to his private sessions with retired coaches from Division 1 schools. His parents had always commented on his natural athleticism, but when basketball became his favorite sport, it also became the focus of their time and their plans for him. He’d known it then, and even reveled in the possibility of becoming a professional NBA player. The thought of it now makes him sick. 

“By the time I got to East High as a student, I already had a leg-up on most of my classmates. I played JV in my freshman year and got moved up to varsity halfway through the season. It was in all the local papers. EJ Caswell: East High’s rising star. And it felt good to be the star. It felt good to have people recognize me in the halls. As high school went on and I started thinking about college, my parents started introducing me to players and talent scouts from all these big name schools. They would tell me to make a good impression and to network, and to seize every opportunity that came my way. It created a selfishness in me that I wasn’t even aware of. I was too focused on what other people could do for me.

Eventually, I got signed for a full ride at Gonzaga. I was stoked to be going to a school with a bunch of Sweet Sixteen titles under its belt. I thought it was going to be a straight shot to the NBA afterwards, so I didn’t take anything else that seriously. I was coasting, and it was all thanks to the connections my parents helped me make. I didn’t know it at the time. I was too busy eating up the attention, living my dreams. I thought my life was figured out. 

It didn’t last. During my junior year, I was fouled in the middle of a game and came down hard. I tore my ACL, MCL, and meniscus. Just like that, my career prospects were done. I was on crutches for the rest of the season. I had surgery. I did hours and hours of physical therapy. It didn’t matter. I never fully regained the strength in my knee. Even now, standing here and telling you this, I can feel a little pain.” He rubs his right knee. “I’m used to it now. I’ll live with it for the rest of my life. In an odd way, my injury was one of the best things that ever happened to me.

That might seem like a funny thing to say,” he shakes his head. “But it’s true. After my injury, I left the team. I didn’t have a choice. It was pretty clear that I wasn’t gonna recover. I lost my scholarship and my future plans in one fell swoop, and suddenly I had to figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. I lost a lot of people I thought were my friends, too. I’d surrounded myself with people who were like me: ambitious, talented, driven. But after my injury, I realized that they were using me, just like I was using them. They wanted to be associated with me for status or to get noticed or...for whatever. Once I was no longer useful to them, they stopped coming around. They didn’t bother checking on me. I didn’t get invites to events or parties anymore. I was alone.

You might wonder how any of this is a good thing. Well, for starters, I actually had to work at something. I was a solid B student up until that point. I did just enough to keep my scholarship and my place on the team. Now that my grades actually mattered, I studied harder. I had majored in exercise science because I was good at it. Now, I had to figure out what to do with that degree and I decided to be a PE teacher. And yeah, I lost a lot of people I thought were my friends, but I figured out who my real friends were, too. I didn’t see it that way at the time, but looking back, I don’t think I would be very happy if my life had gone according to plan.”

The voices return, louder now and more enthusiastic - more of a celebratory cheer than a slow and mournful chant.

“ _ Here and now, it’s time for celebration. _ _   
_ _ I finally figured out _ _   
_ _ That all our dreams have no limitations _ _   
_ _ That’s what it’s all about _ .”

“After I graduated, I moved back in with my parents and started looking for a job. When I found out East High was hiring, I jumped at the chance to come back for so many reasons. I had the time of my life here. It was these halls and this gym floor that got me noticed, and I was proud to be a Leopard. When I found out that Coach Johnson was retiring, I knew I wanted to succeed him. I may not have been able to keep the Caswell legacy going, but I wanted to keep the Leopard basketball legacy alive. I saw an opportunity and I went for it. I wanted to be a star coach. I wanted to have an all-star team. I wanted to distinguish our school, and myself at the same time. I found a new team to play for. I made new friends - ones that didn’t care who I was or what I could do for them. Ones who liked me just for me.” His eyes land meaningfully on Nini. Her lips twitch upward in a half-smile. “I was happier here as a coach than I had been in a long time.

So you’re probably wondering why I’m here, then. Basketball doesn’t have anything to do with the arts. At least not on the surface. And yeah, we lost a little bit of funding with this new budget, but not nearly as much as other programs have. I should be happy. Or at least content, right? This isn’t my fight. I used to think that way, too, up until last year. Last year taught me something new.

At the beginning of last year, two people entered my life. I didn’t know it at the time, but they would become some of my closest friends: Ricky Bowen and Gina Porter. At the time, I was set. We’d just won two back-to-back state championships. I was settled into my job. I was happy. I had some very important, very awesome people in my life.” His eyes again find Nini’s, then shift to Ashlyn’s. “I didn’t think there was anything more to the story. 

When the school musical started, though, I started to become jealous. I started to feel threatened. Suddenly, my friends were spending more time working on the show than they were with me. I had this twisted idea that somehow Ricky was out to get me, or to steal the people who were important to me. So I did a very bad thing. A couple of very bad things. I tried to sabotage the show. I was hoping that if the show failed, things would go back to the way they were. Once again, I was blind to my own selfishness. I didn’t want to share my friends. I didn’t want anyone else to outshine me. 

I was a hypocrite, because at practice I would tell my players to work together, cooperate, and put teamwork ahead of winning. I wasn’t leading by example, though. I didn’t understand that one person’s success doesn’t negate another’s.”

Nini’s breath hitches and her brow furrows as she glances surreptitiously to Ricky. He looks just as confused. This wasn’t in the speech he rehearsed. Not once did he ever mention last year’s sabotage, or his hand in it, when practicing for them. For a moment, she’s paralyzed with dread and fear. What if the board decides he deserves to be fired for what he did? Ricky squeezes her hand and nods in the direction of the stage, encouraging her to listen to EJ once more. Whatever the consequences, it’s too late to take back what he’s said, and so she turns her attention back to him and listens as he confesses and owns every misdeed. 

“Ricky and Nini and Seb and my cousin Ashlyn and Gina were all a key part of me learning that lesson. When I realized how wrong I was, I tried my best to make up for it.” He draws in another breath, catching the confused looks on his friends’ faces. He’d deliberately left this part out in rehearsal for fear that they wouldn’t let him go through with it. He was careful to make sure he didn’t implicate Gina, acutely aware of the fact that he could only own his actions. A feeling of relief floods him with every word, and it feels like a weight is gradually being lifted off his shoulders as he speaks and takes in the rapt attention of the board and the assembled members of the community. This is who he is, unabridged and unembellished. How can he express the value of the arts at East High without telling the whole story of everything he’s learned from them? 

“The basketball team and I filled in for the stage crew. And the show was incredible. I’ve never seen such a talented cast or a talented crew. Watching it all come together, I realized how amazing the arts are because of their ability to unite. Kids from every background imaginable were working together to make this show happen, and it taught me how powerful the student body can be if they all come together instead of being divided the way I was trying to divide the cast. Or the way the board is trying to divide STEM and non-STEM subjects.” 

He pauses and lets the words sink in. “I’m not sharing this story with you all because I want the attention or to prove I’m somehow a good person. The truth is, I wasn’t a good person in the past and I’m still working on becoming a better person now. I’m sharing this story with you because I need you to understand that the arts have value for  _ everyone _ . They can teach something to  _ everyone _ . My understanding of the word team has expanded. It’s not just the basketball team anymore. My team is the entire school: every student, every teacher, every club, every organization. And if one member of the team is threatened, then we’re all threatened. Our job is to help one another shine. Because after all, the stars don’t outshine each other. They work together to light up the whole night sky.” 

With that, he draws in a deep breath, grabs hold of the microphone in his best imitation of a rock star, and starts to sing, accompanied by the students. 

“ _ Everyone is special in their own way. _ _   
_ _ We make each other strong. _ _   
_ _ We’re not the same; we’re different in a good way. _ _   
_ _ Together’s where we belong. _ ”

As the chorus winds up, Ricky and Nini storm the stage, Seb, Ashlyn, and Gina hot on their heels as the students close in around them, launching into a synchronized performance of the choreography from the film.

EJ’s smile is broad and unabashed as he stiffly mimics the choreography a half-beat behind the others, his voice ringing out clearly and proudly. 

“ _ We’re all in this together _ _   
_ _ Once we know, that we are _ _   
_ _ We’re all stars and we see that. _ _   
_ _ We’re all in this together _ _   
_ _ And it shows when we stand _ __   
_ Hand-in-hand _ _   
_ __ Make our dreams come true. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what'd you think? I couldn't write a show-tune based High School Musical fanfic without including at least one campy reference to the original film. So here we are. Up next: Gina! But first, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!


	19. You Can't Stop The Beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Sorry that it took this long to finish - life's been a bit hectic as of late, and while it doesn't show signs of slowing down anytime soon, I always find comfort and peace in returning to writing. So updates may be a bit slower, but they will come - I promise!

EJ takes one last, meaningful glance around the cafeteria from his place on the stage when the song ends. He notes with satisfaction that Mazzara looks vaguely intrigued, leaning forward in his seat with his eyebrows knit. “I would now like to invite Ms. Gina Porter to the stage,” EJ says, sidestepping off the stage and motioning for Gina to come forward. 

Gina’s heart skips a beat and she chides herself for feeling surprised. The order of their appearances has been set for days. Everyone knows their cue. But something about hearing EJ speak her name, summoning her to the stage in this moment, feels different. Her eyes find Mr. Mazzara’s. She recognizes the look in his eyes. It’s the same look she gave her mother countless times growing up - every time she was told they would be moving yet again. It’s an expression of disappointment tinged with betrayal. Apart from the attempted smiles and stilted praise he offered, it’s the most emotion she’s seen out of him. She can’t help but feel that this new look is out of place on his normally stoic face, and she doesn’t like that it’s directed at her. 

Gina swallows her heart, reminds herself that Mazzara’s approval is not what she wants or needs, and walks steadily toward the stage. Ricky’s pitch pipe echoes throughout the cafeteria as she mounts the single step and approaches the microphone. The students’ voices are soft, as if they have also sensed her hesitation. They always began loudly in rehearsals, their tone celebratory. She clears her throat and looks Mazzara in the eye.  _ You set the pace, Gina _ .  _ You set the tone.  _

“ _ You can’t stop an avalanche as it races down the hill _ _   
_ _ You can try to stop the seasons, girl, but you know you never will _ .”

The sound is wrong. It’s too slow. Too mournful. She forces a smile. Her mother’s words echo in her head.  _ I raised you to be a woman who stands up for truth and justice _ . 

“Good afternoon,” she says with the crisp, commanding tone of a debater. It’s more courageous than she feels. “Gina Porter, math teacher and advisor for the scholastic decathlon and robotics team. I’ve come here today to share my own account of what the arts at East High mean to me.” Her eyes find Nini first, then Ashlyn. Both offer her a thumbs up. 

“Salt Lake City is the most recent - and longest - stop in a long string of places that I’ve lived. It’s the first that I’ve really thought of as home. My mom works for FEMA, so we moved around a lot growing up. It’s tough being the new kid. It’s even tougher being the new kid over and over again. I passed through dozens of schools, and each time I felt more and more like I didn’t belong. I rarely got a chance to settle in before we were off to the next place in need. I don’t regret the things I learned and the people we helped, but I also have to admit that I felt adrift for most of my childhood. I was unmoored. I had no roots.

When you’re always the new kid, you find yourself with a lot of time to fill. I didn’t join very many extracurriculars since I wouldn’t be able to see them through. I didn’t have any friends to hang out with after school because I’d left them all behind as suddenly as I made them. I started taking up hobbies: little activities that I could do on my own. I trawled YouTube for tutorials. I learned how to dance, how to sew, how to bake and knit and paint with household items. Do you know what all of those things have in common?” She waits for Mazzara to meet her eyes and doesn’t continue until he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “They’re artistic activities,” she concludes.

“I realized that I enjoyed a lot of these activities. Especially dance,” she smiles at Seb and he smiles back. “Just before the start of my sophomore year of high school, I found myself in Joplin, Missouri after a massive tornado struck the area. It looked like we would be staying for a while, so I decided to get involved with extracurriculars. I joined the school musical. I figured I liked to dance, and the musical would be done and over with in a few short months. Even if we had to leave, I thought I might get the chance to see this through.

I loved it. I loved being able to slip into a character. It was like I could be someone else for a little bit, and I didn’t need to worry about fitting in or making friends. As it turns out, we were relocated by December to help blizzard recovery in the midwest. I didn’t actually get to perform in the school musical. But I’d learned something, and from that point on, I found a way to get involved with theater at every school I attended. It became my refuge. No matter what turmoil was happening in the places I found myself, and no matter what chaos was happening in my own life, I knew that the theater would be a safe haven where I could turn my thoughts off and tune out the rest of the world. I only made it to opening night once or twice, but the rehearsals alone were some of my happiest memories of high school.

When I finally graduated and went to college, I decided to become a teacher. I’d always been good at school, and teachers had been some of the most influential people in my life. I went in with an education major, but I didn’t know what I was going to teach yet. I had time, and besides, I had all these other plans for school, too. I was gonna have it all. I wanted to make Dean’s List every semester. I wanted to graduate summa cum laude. I wanted to be in honor societies and I wanted to be an RA and I wanted to be part of the theater club.”

For a moment, she becomes lost in her own memories of her first moments at UCLA. Her mother had been on assignment in California at the time, and it had been a short drive to campus with the station wagon packed full of boxes. She was blown away by the size of the university - a sprawling, mission-style refuge with a view of the LA skyline. A dorm room that, though shared with another girl, was still something wholly and tangibly  _ hers _ . It was a small room made smaller by the fact that she only technically held claim over half of it, and yet it was more space than she knew what to do with. A life living out of boxes and suitcases hadn’t prepared her for the permanence of an entire school year. 

Sometimes she would wander in and out of random buildings on campus just because she could. She would throw her laptop and her textbooks and her highlighters into her backpack and find a quiet spot and sit for hours because she could. She would shut her eyes and pretend that UCLA was her home because she could. When her mom was transferred yet again a few months into her spring semester, she’d been devastated. But then she’d remembered that no matter where her mother went, she would return to UCLA in the fall, and she would keep returning for the next few years. So she’d rented a storage unit, thrown all of her dorm furniture in it, and crisscrossed the country with her mother, always flying back to Los Angeles at the start of the next semester. 

“All my plans changed once I got a taste of living on campus,” she presses on. “It was the first time I could guarantee that I would be returning to the same place year after year. It wasn’t really a home, but it was the closest I had ever had to the permanence of one. I decided that I didn’t want to return to a life of always moving once I left school. I wanted to settle somewhere and stay there forever. So I decided to stop pursuing the arts. I decided to become a math teacher instead, because there weren’t very many people that wanted to be math teachers and it was easy to distinguish myself. Besides, I kept hearing from professors and guest speakers and superintendents,” she levels her gaze directly at Mr. Mazzara, “that it would be easier to find a job as a math teacher. I kept hearing about shortages and how once you were hired, you were basically safe as long as you did your job. I became hardened. Suddenly, I didn’t care about all the things that used to give me so much joy and comfort. I didn’t want to bake or craft or dance. I just wanted to get done with school and move onto the next phase of my life, where I could finally have all the things I wanted when I was a kid: a place to call my own, without the threat of having to leave it all behind.

I was blind to my own selfishness. When I arrived in Salt Lake City and got a job here at East High, I was determined to make myself stand out. I wanted to be the MVP. I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to make sure that everybody would want me around for years to come. I came to East High with the mindset that this would be my home, but I was so focused on that goal that I forgot to think about the people around me. 

It wasn’t until I met my coworkers and the students behind the musical last year that things started to change for me. I wasn’t a very good friend or role model. And yet, despite it all, they still accepted the robotics team’s help. More than that, they welcomed me into their group. I learned that permanency isn’t about a job or a house or even a city. It’s about the friendships you form and the people who remain a part of your life even when everything else changes. It’s about community, and community extends far beyond a specific place. I’m grateful for the friendships I’ve formed here at East High.” 

She takes a moment to make eye contact with Nini, then Ricky, then Ashlyn and Seb and EJ. Each face smiles back at her, so much like the photos that line the wall above her desk. Everything she craved as a child - community and belonging and family and  _ home _ \- is there in Nini’s smile, full of warmth and encouragement and sincerity, in the way Ricky’s eyes crinkle at the corners and twinkle, appearing almost glassy as he smiles at her. It is present in the way Seb’s glasses, simultaneously bookish and stylish, reflect her own face. In Ashlyn’s fiery red hair, matched only by the fire of her determination, and in EJ’s strong hands, clapping quietly for her. In Big Red’s easy, lopsided grin and Kourtney’s slow nod of approval, the ghost of a smirk tracing her dark-tinted lips. There is nothing more worth fighting for than this. 

The students’ voices return, this time louder and bolder and more determined with the tone she’s set for them. 

“ _ You can try to stop my dancing feet, but I just cannot stand still. _ _   
_ _ ‘Cause the world keeps spinning round and round _ _   
_ _ And my heart’s keeping time to the speed of sound _ _   
_ _ I was lost till I heard the drums, then I found my way _ _   
_ _ ‘Cause you can’t stop the beat! _ ”

“The arts taught me everything I know about friendship,” she says. “And it’s ironic because the thing that gave me comfort and a sense of belonging as a kid gives me comfort and a sense of belonging now. Everything comes full circle. So my question to you, Mr. Mazzara, and to you, members of the board, is this: how can you sacrifice the arts for the sake of science and math? How can you give one more value than the other, when the very people who teach math and science are telling you that they need the arts too? 

My life came full circle, and so does school. I may teach STEM, but it’s informed by the arts. Symmetry. The Fibonacci sequence. Heck, our precious robotics club requires more creativity than it does numbers and rote engineering. The arts aren’t just important, they’re  _ vital  _ to everything else we hope to accomplish here.”

She takes a breath, locks eyes with Ricky and Nini, and affixes the most dazzling smile she can muster. “I may be young, Mr. Mazzara, but I have a lesson for you. I learned it myself last year with my experiences during the musical: You can’t possibly stop the beat of determined people united for a cause, and to do so would be futile. It would be like fighting the tide. So I strongly urge you to reconsider this budget proposal because you will lose this fight!” 

She steps down off the stage as the students close in around her, and she tries to channel all of her mother’s superhero strength into her singing. She does her best to sing a song for truth and justice. 

“ _ You can’t stop today as it comes speeding ‘round the track. _ _   
_ _ Yesterday is history, and it’s never coming back. _ _   
_ _ ‘Cause tomorrow is a brand new day and it don’t know white from Black _

_ ‘Cause the world keeps spinning round and round _ _   
_ _ And my heart’s keeping time to the speed of sound _ __   
_ I was lost till I heard the drums, then I found my way. _ _   
_ __ ‘Cause you can’t stop the beat! ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know. But I really wanted to hone in on Gina's perspective for this one. Let me know what you think and I'll work on the next chapter in the meantime! Next up: Ricky!
> 
> Also, chapter title is from Hairspray of course!


	20. The World Will Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He-yo! It's me, back again with another chapter as we come close to the end of this story (don't worry, I have further plans for this universe before I wrap it all up!). I'm also in the process of *hopefully* moving so packing and arrangements have taken over my life for the time being. I'm still writing when I find the time (it relaxes me) but updates will probably be a bit slow until I'm settled. 
> 
> ANYWAYS, the moment you've been waiting for... Ricky!

When Gina calls his name, Ricky’s hand slips from Nini’s grasp and she giggles as she gives him a playful nudge toward the stage. She watches as he steps forward eagerly, trying to keep himself from sprinting. For a moment, she worries that he’ll trip over his own two feet in his haste, but he manages to make it to the microphone without incident. He sounds almost out-of-breath when he takes the mic from Gina’s hand, accepts the pat on the back that she gives him, and turns to face the table full of board members. His eyes lock squarely with Mr. Mazzara’s. The superintendent folds his hands and shifts slightly in his seat. Ricky swallows, willing his heart to slow down its beating. It pounds in his head, loud and throbbing like a steady drumbeat that threatens to drown out every carefully-rehearsed word and sentiment. 

It feels like the moment at the top of a rollercoaster, just before the ride drops. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a halfpipe, about to drop in. It feels like the moment between opening his mouth and starting to sing. Time feels frozen. His stomach and lungs and heart feel suspended, floating around inside his torso without anything anchoring them. His head feels disconnected from his body. His limbs feel distant and rubbery. Not for the first time today, adrenaline courses through his veins. 

“Good afternoon,” he says. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears - choked with frantic excitement, echoing around the cafeteria. “I’m Ricky Bowen, music teacher. My students and my friends have already talked a lot about why the arts are important to them. I think it’s kinda obvious why they’re important to me. But there’s a lot more to it than just a job and some instruments, and I wanna share that with you all today.” 

He takes in all the eyes on him and looks purposefully at his friends, then at Devin, then the other students until his sights finally come to rest on Nini. A grin threatens to overtake his features. He can’t explain it, but somehow he already feels triumphant. Perhaps it’s the fervent statements from his friends and from his students. Perhaps it’s the beat and rhythm and chorus of every song, the precision of every piece of choreography, and the passion of every monologue and skit. 

He starts to feel the rush coming on - the high, invincible feeling that’s spurred on every reckless moment of his life. His blood feels like it’s on fire, warming every vein and heightening his desire to fight for this cause. It’s more than a show. It’s an idea. His friends rallied around him.  _ Time to bring it home _ .

When the students’ voices begin, his heart skips a beat and he smirks as they rise in volume. They didn’t wait for his pitch pipe or a cue. They didn’t need it. 

“ _ Pulitzer and Hearst, they think we’re nothing. Are we nothing? _ _   
_ _ No! _ _   
_ _ Pulitzer and Hearst, they think they got us. Do they got us? _ _   
_ _ No! _ _   
_ _ Even though we ain’t got hats or badges, _ _   
_ _ We’re a union just by saying so. _ _   
_ _ And the world will know! _ ”

Ricky beams proudly at them, and catches Ashlyn’s gleeful expression. She’d been particularly fond of his song choice, and had even tied it into an entire lesson on the Newsboys’ strike of 1899. He’s always liked the song, and the musical, for different reasons: an underdog story if ever there was one. 

“I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that, like most of us, my relationship with music began at an early age,” he begins. “And it shouldn’t be a surprise that, like many of us, I turned to music when I was going through some really tough times. I was twelve when my parents split up and decided to relocate. My dad decided to go to Denver, and my mom decided to go to Chicago. They asked who I wanted to go with. At the end of the day, I knew I would have to pick up and start over somewhere. I chose to go with my mom. 

Gina already shared how hard it is to be the new kid, and how impossible it can feel to start over from scratch. It was pretty much the same for me. Up until that point, I’d never even moved houses. When I got to Chicago, I was insanely lonely. I didn’t know anyone, and it was the middle of summer so I hadn’t even started school yet. I’d lost everything at once: my home, my friends, and in a way, both of my parents, too. I was cooped up inside with no one to hang out with, and I had a lot of feelings that I couldn’t name. I didn’t know what to do with myself. So, like Gina, I, too, turned to YouTube to try to learn a hobby. 

I had this old guitar that I brought with me. It was a birthday gift I’d never learned to play, but I committed myself to learning that summer. I would shut myself up in my room for hours and watch videos, trying to imitate what I saw. And when I wasn’t playing the guitar, I was listening to music to pass the time. I made a list of all the songs I was gonna learn to play, and it kept me going. I had something to work towards. It gave me a sense of purpose. It became like a home for me. When I couldn’t count on anything or anyone around me, I could always count on that guitar.”

The house his mother purchased in Oak Park was older and narrower than the one he grew up in. He hated everything about it: the wallpapered bathrooms, the pale blue carpet that showed every speck of dirt anyone tracked into the house, the fact that his new backyard was scarcely more than a chain-link fence and a concrete slab. Most of all, he hated that Todd moved in almost immediately. He hated that his mother shared a room with the interloper. He hated that Todd cooked eggs on Saturday mornings and tried to bond with him as if he needed yet another dad who would let him down. 

He spent most of that summer sprawled out on his twin mattress, guitar in hand, aimlessly plucking at its strings while staring up at the cracked ceiling, the whine of the window A/C unit drowning out most of his sour notes. 

“ _ What’s it gonna take to stop the wagons? _ _   
_ _ Are we ready? _ _   
_ _ Yeah! _ _   
_ _ What’s it gonna take to stop the scabbers? _ _   
_ _ Can we do it? _ _   
_ _ Yeah! _ _   
_ _ We’ll do what we gotta do until we break the will of mighty Bill and Joe… _ _   
_ _ And the world will know! _ _   
_ _ And the journal, too! _ _   
_ _ Mr. Hearst and Pulitzer, have we got news for you! _ _   
_ _ See, the world don’t know, _ _   
_ _ But they’re gonna pay. _ _   
_ _ ‘Stead of hawkin’ headlines, we’ll be making them today. _ _   
_ _ And our ranks will grow. _ _   
_ _ And we’ll kick their rears. _ _   
_ _ And the world will know that we’ve been here! _ ”

“I wish I could say things got better from there,” Ricky continues. “I wish I could say I started school in Chicago, found a way to forgive my mom, made a ton of friends, and lived happily ever after. But the truth is that, if that’s how my story went, I probably wouldn’t be standing here. Yeah, I started school and yeah, I made some friends. But the fact is, I still felt lonely. So I continued pouring myself into music and that’s when I discovered that anyone can be a musician. I wasn’t anybody. I was just some punk skater who needed an outlet, and yet I was able to pick up a guitar and learn to play it. There’s no barrier of entry for music. All you have to do is make sound. That’s how I first decided to become a teacher.

I knew firsthand how music could help. I knew from experience how freeing it felt to escape into an instrument, or a song, or even a single note. And I knew that there were probably other kids out there like me, and that music might be a way for them to escape their circumstances, too.” His eyes find Devin in the crowd and he gives the boy a small, knowing nod. 

“After I finished college, I didn’t know where to go or what to do next. Going back to Chicago wasn’t really an option for me, so I decided to sign up to teach abroad. They offered me a position at an elementary school in the Philippines and I took it without a second thought. What better way to prove anyone can be a musician, right? If first graders can do it, so can you.”

He leaves out the moments of doubt and frustration. He doesn’t mention the fact that he almost cancelled his flight the night before he was due to leave. He doesn’t mention how ill-prepared he was when he stepped out of Ninoy Aquino International Airport and into the sweltering humidity. He doesn’t bring up how inept he felt as he tried to figure out whether 188 pesos was a lot for bananas, or how to drive a stick shift, or how to find a plumber when a pipe burst in his apartment. He leaves out the fact that, for the first four months, he stumbled his way through every lesson plan, scraping past by the skin of his teeth because having a class of his own (and n occasional language barrier, and fewer resources, and no practical experience…) was very different from college courses or even student teaching. He leaves it out because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter, and he has to consciously try to dredge up moments like this - temporary, negative storms in an otherwise pleasant memory. And at the end of the day, every moment of self-doubt or frustration was worth it for what he learned and gained.

“I loved my time in the Philippines. I loved helping kids deepen their love of music, or learn to play a recorder for the first time. But it wasn’t home. So I came back to Utah when my year abroad was up. I came to Salt Lake City and I got a job right here at East High, where I was promised that music, community, and friendship were all valued equally. And up until recently, I believed that was true.” 

“ _ When the circulation bell starts ringing, will we hear it? _ _   
_ _ No! _ _   
_ _ What if the Delanceys come out swinging? Will we hear it? _ _   
_ _ No!” _

Ricky fights the urge to join in the singing and shouting, though his heartbeat quickens the louder his students get. 

“ _ When you got a hundred voices singing, who can hear a lousy whistle blow? _ _   
_ _ And the world will know!” _

“You’ve already heard about some of the things that took place last year during the musical. We had to contend with a lot, including a scaled-back budget. But never once did we feel like we didn’t have the support of the board, or the community. And with the help of students from all types of backgrounds and teachers of all different subjects, we were able to make it work. We pulled off an amazing show. I made some amazing friends. Permanent ones. This place started to feel like a real home. And I may be the teacher, but I learned so much about music and life and unity last year. I learned to believe even more in the power of underdogs - the ones you never expect to rise up and come out on top. I learned that underdogs have the ability to make big things happen through sheer force of will because nobody’s going to give them the resources otherwise.

So, Mr. Mazzara, I ask you to consider this,” he challenges. “This year, you’ve shown that you don’t value the arts as much as you value science and math and technology. You’ve tried to tell us that these things are more worthy than the musical, or the literary magazine, or the photography club, or even some instruments and repair kits to keep our band program going. And in doing so, you’ve also sent a much different message than the one I received when I first started working here. You’ve created a place that values prestige and grants and fancy state recognitions over friendship and community. But look around you. If the arts weren’t worthwhile, would this many people - your own students and staff, the community members who help fund our school - show up to help save them?

I think the arts are so special to people because well  _ all  _ escape into them when we have nowhere else to turn. How many of us turn on the TV or stream a show after a rough day?” He waits as hands go up around the cafeteria, including members of the board. “How many of us need the radio on when we drive, or turn on Spotify when the house is a little too quiet?” Some hands stay up, and more join them. “How many of us play video games as a way to turn our brains off for a bit, unwind, or even socialize with our friends?” Almost every hand in the room is up by now. “How many of us read or write or draw or paint or take photos to express ourselves, and to get away from the things that are bothering us for a little while?” Even Mazzara’s hand is raised by now, and Ricky glances meaningfully around the room at every hand in the air before settling his gaze on the superintendent.

“When the world got too heavy, the arts were my home. And the beauty of it is that it’s a shared home. It’s a place for all of us when we don’t know where else to turn. So go ahead and try to take that away from us, Mr. Mazzara,” he says, his voice rising steadily. “Because we will fight for our home, and the world will know what the students, staff, and families of East High fought for!” 

This time, he doesn’t resist jumping in with the chorus of voices, thunderous and defiant in their tone and volume. The sound ricochets off the cafeteria walls and echoes down the halls of East High. Their faces are fervent and alight, and, spurred on by their passion, Ricky leaps onto a nearby table to join their singing.

_ “So the world says no? _ _   
_ _ Well the kids do, too. _ _   
_ _ Try to walk all over us, we’ll stomp all over you! _ _   
_ _ Can they kick us out? _ _   
_ _ Take away our vote? _ _   
_ _ Will we let them stuff this crock of garbage down our throat?  _ _   
_ _ No! _ _   
_ _ Every day we wait is a day we lose. _ _   
_ _ And this ain’t for fun, and it ain’t for show _ _   
_ _ And we’ll fight ‘em toe to toe to toe and so _ __   
_ The world will feel the fire and finally know!” _ __   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, these shorter, monologue chapters are sort of a way to wrap up each character's arc as this was originally planned to be the end of this particular AU universe. Even though the story will continue past this, I hope you're enjoying them anyway. Next up: Nini, who (in my humble opinion) has the most important monologue of them all. Let me know what you thought about Ricky and his story (that whole backstory in Chicago will be fleshed out in a future story btw). 
> 
> Also, the title of this fic is from Newsies, which remains one of my favorite musicals of all time.


	21. Defying Gravity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big day today! For me and for Nini and our other East High faves. I signed my lease and I'm officially moving! That also means I'll probably be slow with the final few updates, but I hope you'll understand. As for this story - we're right at the end, guys! But don't worry! I've got so much more in the works for this universe and I can't wait to share that with you, too. 
> 
> But for now, please enjoy Nini's speech!

When the song finishes, Ricky returns to the stage, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “It’s my honor to bring Ms. Nini Salazar-Roberts to the stage,” he says between ragged inhales. 

Nini freezes mid-clap. She’d been so swept away by the energy of the students, so amused by Ricky’s antics, that she’d forgotten she was next. Not only next, but last. They’d chosen her to be their anchor - the person to drive the point home and secure their victory. Ricky looks at her expectantly, smiling and panting, his curls askew and hanging into his eyes. She moves one foot forward and it feels like walking through wet concrete: stiff and slow and slogging. Her head swims as she approaches the stage and Ricky offers her his hand and hauls her up beside him. 

“You got this,” he says, squeezing her hand. His eyes are earnest, full of faith in her, and she feels like she could fly if he would only keep looking at her like that. 

“Stay,” she says quietly, pulling him towards her when he moves to depart the stage.

His eyes soften and he shakes his head gently. “No. This is your story, Neens,” he says. “And your spotlight. You should be the one to tell it. You deserve it.” 

She peers out at the crowd, at Benjamin Mazzara who regards her with a mix of curiosity and severity, at Principal Gutierrez who has grown sweatier and more nervous with each passing speech, at all of her friends and coworkers who eagerly await her testimony. She gulps. It’s easy enough to stand in front of twenty-five kids and deliver a lesson. They don’t know the same things she knows. They’ll forgive her mistakes. Moreover, though she takes pride in their approval, she doesn’t need it. This is different. These people hold her career in their hands. It’s been a while since she’s felt true, genuine stage fright, but the feelings strike her suddenly. 

“I can’t,” she murmurs, unable to will her feet to step closer to the mic. 

“You can,” Ricky assures her. 

She shakes her head, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and biting down. 

“Hey,” he calls her attention back to him and his face relaxes into an easy smile that floods her veins with relief. “I’ll be here the whole time. Front row,” he promises. “Just look at me, Nini. Right at me.” 

He squeezes her hand once more and then sidesteps off the stage before she can reconsider, and true to his word, he takes up a position front and center in the audience. His eyes never leave her, sincere and encouraging. She releases her bottom lip, exhales audibly, and steps up to the microphone. 

Towards the back of the cafeteria, she spots her moms beaming with pride. They’d both promised to be there when she told them the plan. She spots Kourtney and Big Red sitting with them, and Kourtney nods when she notices that she’s looking at her. As she works her gaze forward, she sees Ashlyn and Gina standing side-by-side, grinning broadly at her, and Seb, whose smile is so wide it could split his face. She sees EJ, who shoots her a thumbs up, and then her eyes find Ricky’s once more. The love and confidence and reassurance she sees in his expression is enough to give her the strength to start.

Mazzara watches her stoically, and it’s apparent that she has his attention. She doesn’t know what to do with that power. She hadn’t expected him to listen.

“Good afternoon,” she says. Her voice, quiet and even, rings out through the speakers and sounds foreign to her own ears. Her throat is dry and she resists the urge to scratch it. “My name is Nina Salazar-Roberts. I teach English, and a whole lot more. You would think, then, that I would have no problem standing up here today, talking to you all, telling you why the arts are such an important part of our school. But that’s not entirely true, and the reason I’m here today has a lot to do with the way the arts have changed me as a person.”

There is no chorus of voices that starts to sing. There is only a single voice - lilting but powerful - that rings clear and high from the group of students assembled. Nini can’t help but smile as Mariela steps forward. 

_ “Something has changed within me. _ _   
_ _ Something is not the same. _ _   
_ _ I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game. _ _   
_ _ Too late for second-guessing. _ _   
_ _ Too late to go back to sleep. _ _   
_ _ It’s time to trust my instincts, close my eyes, and leap.” _

There is a momentary pause before the other students’ voices join in.

_ It’s time to try defying gravity. _ _   
_ _ I think I’ll try defying gravity. _ _   
_ _ And you can’t pull me down.” _

Mariela returns her smile as their voices fade out.

“I was always the shy one,” Nini confesses. “I didn’t cry when I was born. I didn’t say my first word until well after most babies my age were learning to string together multiple syllables. In grade school, I barely made a peep. I’m pretty sure I have middle school classmates who never once heard my voice. That’s just the way I was. At home, I was a chatterbox. My moms are here. They can attest.” 

Carol chuckles, her laugh loud enough to be heard even in the front of the cafeteria, and beside her Dana nods emphatically. 

“But in school, I kept to myself for many reasons. I liked to read my books and to doodle in my notebooks. I liked to sing songs in my head. I spent a lot of time daydreaming and writing songs that I would never sing to anyone but myself. By the time I got to high school, I had pretty much accepted that I would always be the shy girl, and I convinced myself that I was fine with most people never knowing the real me. I had my moms. I had my best friend, Kourtney, and a few others. And I thought that was enough.

That started to change when I was persuaded to join the school play by one of my English teachers. I think she saw how much time I spent with my nose buried in a book and understood that I had a lot of imagination and creativity without an outlet. I think she read my papers and understood that I had a lot to say, and that I was just too shy to say it. I was reluctant. The idea of being on a stage filled me with dread. But I figured I’d give it a try to appease her, and I got a part in the ensemble. 

Being in the musical was a game-changer for me. I made a few new friends. I found I didn’t mind being onstage so much when I was surrounded by other people. If I messed up, their voices and movements would distract the audience from my mistake. I never had to carry a scene. I could fade into the background. It was perfect. And for the rest of my high school career, the musical became part of who I was. I was never the star, and I thought that I was content with this arrangement. I would be a background character: seen but not heard. I had thoughts and opinions, but I kept them to myself. I had a whole world in my mind, but I never revealed it. People seemed to like me well enough, but I was scared that if I opened my mouth, they would like me less.

Still, there was something inside me that I couldn’t get out. The stage was a place for self-expression, and I was sometimes frustrated by not having any lines, as much as I said I didn’t want them. I was always a background character, but for every background character I played, I would invent a story about how they came to be. In  _ Les Miserables _ , for example. I was part of the ensemble, but I created a persona for each character I portrayed. I was a Lovely Lady, but I did so out of desperation. I wasn’t just an extra at the barricade, but a disgruntled milliner who was tired of seeing the aristocracy walk all over the common folk. I had a name and a history, but no one would ever know it besides me. I realized that people are much the same way. Even the quietest ones have a rich inner world and their own unique experiences. They see the universe with their own eyes. They think thoughts no one else thinks. Playing these characters onstage was the closest I ever came to showing that, and the more I realized this, the more I realized I couldn’t be content being seen and not heard.” 

Mariela’s voice returns when she pauses. 

_ “I’m through accepting limits ‘cause someone says they’re so. _ _   
_ _ Some things I cannot change, but ‘till I try, I’ll never know. _ _   
_ _ Too long I’ve been afraid of losing love, I guess I’ve lost. _ _   
_ _ Well if that’s love, it comes at much too high a cost.” _

“I decided to become a teacher for a lot of reasons. I loved books. I loved writing songs. And I thought I could help a few other kids learn to love words, too. But more than that, I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to prove that background characters do have value. I wanted to help kids like me find a voice. I wanted to advocate for them.

I didn’t always live up to my own expectations. When I first started at East High, I found myself reverting right back to my high school ways. These were the same halls, after all. I was a little shy. I tended to keep my head down and stay in my lane. There were a few people I met that changed that for me. EJ Caswell and Ashlyn Caswell were two of my first friends as an East High faculty member, and I felt so accepted with them around. So now I had my moms, my best friend, Kourtney, and EJ and Ashlyn. And I thought that was finally enough.

But then my second year hit and things changed. I discovered there was still so much more. That year - last year - I was asked to co-direct the musical with a certain new music teacher, Mr. Ricky Bowen.” Ricky’s lips tweak at the corners and he dips his head shyly. 

“As you’ve all already heard, we faced more than one setback during last year’s production. There were weeks where I felt like we wouldn’t be able to handle the adversity. There were plenty of times that I wanted to give up. But being a co-director made me realize that I couldn’t afford to be passive. I was responsible for pulling the show off, after all. There were students counting on me. Ricky was counting on me, too. I had to speak up. I had to do my part. It’s funny because I told myself that I wanted to help my students find their voices, but up until that point, I hadn’t even found mine.

A chorus of students’ voices rises.

_ “I’d sooner buy defying gravity. _ _   
_ _ Kiss my goodbye, I’m defying gravity. _ _   
_ _ And you can’t pull me down.” _

“That brings us to today. Today, you, Mr. Mazzara, and you, members of the board, are trying to cut funding to the arts. You are trying to take away the very thing that helped me find my voice and helped countless others do the same. So I’m putting what I learned from theater to good use. I’m refusing to be passive anymore. I learned last year that there are people counting on me to set an example.

The truth is, good teachers are advocates. Good  _ people  _ are advocates. And I cannot advocate for others if I am not willing to advocate for myself. So I am here today to stand up for what I believe in, and to set an example to my students to do the same. I’m here to take a stand for everyone at East High. They deserve the chance to find who they are and express themselves. They deserve the chance to realize that everyone - even the background characters - have stories that are rich and interesting and worthy of telling. They deserve to know that they don’t need to be the background characters when it comes to their own lives.

Mr. Mazzara, the message you’re sending with this proposed budget is that the arts are background characters. You are telling us that we should be silent. You are telling us that we should clear the stage and let STEM subjects dominate the spotlight. But I cannot accept that. They all have equal value. They are all an important part of students’ lives and experiences and development.” 

“So this time, I’m not going to be passive,” her voice starts to rise, taking on a shaky timbre. She seeks Ricky’s warm, brown eyes and finds that they still haven’t left her. Just like he promised. So she looks right at him and draws on the strength he gives her. “This time, I’m going to rise up and use my voice to challenge what isn’t fair.” Her voice takes on an edge that is unfamiliar even to her. “And I’m promising myself, my students, my friends, and you that I will continue to do that for as long as it takes to succeed.”

Ricky lets out a loud whoop that quickly elicits cheers and shouts of agreement from the audience. 

“And one more thing,” Nini adds, her voice rising above the din. A warm feeling pools in the pit of her stomach and scorches through her chest, speeding up her heartbeat and making her stand up straighter. “Today’s movement? This song? It was all led by a student of mine.” She nods to Mariela. “When I met Mariela last year, she was an understudy. Like me, she was quiet and used to being a background character. When she was elevated to a lead role, there were many doubters. I was the biggest of them all. But Mariela proved me and everyone else wrong. She didn’t just find her voice on East High’s stage, she found a way to amplify others’ voices, too. I may have been the teacher, but she’s the one who taught me the most lessons about myself, the arts, and the universe last year. So if you need any further reason to prove why the arts are so important at East High, here it is. Mariela reminded me that every character - background or not - deserves to have their voice heard.

She accomplished all of this in a single year. I have no doubt that she’ll change the world with her accomplishments in the future. If the arts could unlock that potential in one student, think of how many others are just waiting to discover their voices. Think of all the incredible change we could see in this world if we just give them a chance. Because if you ask me, I think we could challenge the very laws of gravity with that kind of power.” 

When she accompanies her students’ voices, she beckons for Mariela to join her onstage. Together, their voices ring clear and melodic, amplified by the microphone. She locks eyes with Ricky and his smile is at-once radiant and awe-struck, and despite the fact that he’s heard this speech a hundred times and listened to her rehearse this song for weeks, he still seems to be charmed by the sound of her voice. 

“ _ So if you care to find me, look to the western sky! _ _   
_ _ As someone told me lately, everyone deserves the chance to fly. _ _   
_ _ And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free. _ _   
_ _ To those who ground me, take a message back from me. _

_ Tell them how I am defying gravity. _ _   
_ _ I’m flying high, defying gravity. _ _   
_ _ And soon I’ll match them in renown.” _

As if communicating telepathically, both Nini and Mariela turn their gaze directly on the superintendent as they launch into the final lines. The other students’ voices drop out, until it is just the two of them singing, their voices reverberating off the cinderblock walls, defiant and proud. 

_ “And nobody in all of Oz, _ __   
_ No wizard that there is or was, _ _   
_ __ Is ever gonna bring me down! ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you think? This one was honestly probably my favorite to write out of all the monologues. I guess all that's left now is to find out what Mr. Mazzara has to say... 
> 
> Next time: Mr. Mazzara responds to the revue-lution, and a certain character makes a reappearance... (wonder who it could be?).
> 
> Also - title from Wicked, because no homage to Broadway and musicals in general is complete without at least ONE Defying Gravity reference.


	22. We Go Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Please accept my deepest apologies for my extended absence. I moved recently and my life has been consumed with boxes and furniture shopping and waiting for the internet guy and trying to keep our dog and cat from fighting. This chapter gradually took shape in between the chaos, so please pardon if it's a little choppy. I hope you'll enjoy as we wind this story down.

Nini and Mariela pause, drawing in deep breaths. Their final note hangs in the air. The gathered students do not move. The teachers do not blink. Even the beads of sweat seem to have paused midstream on Principal Gutierrez’s face. And then Ricky begins to applaud so loudly and suddenly that the noise causes everyone to inadvertently jump. Gina and EJ join him on the next beat, just milliseconds before Ashlyn and Seb and Kourtney and Big Red and Nini’s moms and the rest of the crowd begins to cheer and clap their hands and stomp their feet. 

The sound is deafening, drowning out Principal Gutierrez’s pleas for order. Mazzara turns to the board member seated beside him and murmurs something in his ear. The man nods and turns to discuss with the woman seated on his other side. Nini pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she watches them discuss their fate in quiet voices, ignoring the rowdiness around them. She starts when she feels someone grip her shoulder and turns to find that Ricky has materialized beside her. His grin is broad and triumphant, and he wraps her into a tight hug, rocking her side-to-side. She forces a smile to match his, hoping to project the same confidence as his warmth envelops her. 

In another beat, Kourtney has fought her way to the front of the crowd, elbowing cheering parents and students aside. She mounts the stage and throws her arms around Nini’s other side. Soon, Ashlyn, Gina, Seb, EJ, and Big Red have all joined the cluster that quickly becomes a group hug. It feels like the closing night of a sold-out musical, and were it not for the grim expressions on the school board’s faces, she would probably be celebrating, too. 

It takes a full five minutes for the applause to die down, and when everyone has taken their seats once more, the sound of a single set of hands clapping echoes throughout the cafeteria. Nini squints, surveying the crowd to see who hasn’t taken the cue to stop. In the very back of the room, a blonde woman stands against the wall, her clapping slowing to a halt as she makes her way up the aisle. 

“Jenn?” Nini blurts in disbelief, her voice carried by the sound of the still-on microphone. The woman’s heels click against the floor as she struts steadily toward the stage. 

A dark-haired young man rises a few seats away and hurries to fall into step beside her. “And Carlos!” 

“That was quite the show you all put on,” Jenn says when she reaches the stage, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “May I?” she gestures toward the microphone. 

Nini gapes, opening and shutting her mouth like a fish out of water as she tries to find the words. 

“Please,” Ricky says quickly, handing the mic to the actress. She smiles graciously as she takes it from his hand and raises it to her lips, rimmed in bright pink lipstick. 

“Good afternoon,” Jenn’s voice rings clearly through the microphone, serene and measured, with the precision and enunciation of a classically-trained actor. “My name is Jenn: actor, supporter of the arts, Broadway veteran, and alumna of this very school. When my dear friend Carlos shared the work you were doing, I knew I had to attend. You should all be very proud of what you’ve done here today. You’ve taken a stand. You’ve raised your voices in service of a worthy cause and, though I may be biased, your song choice was inspired. You sang and danced and acted beautifully. Especially you, my dear,” her eyes fall on Nini. “It’s clear that you have a lot of very important things to say. You brought down the house. All of you did.” She smiles once more at Nini, then lets her eyes rove over the rest of the staff and students, lingering on Mariela a moment before finally settling her gaze on Mazzara. The man shifts in his seat for the first time.

“Hello, Ben,” Jenn says, a wisp of a smirk crossing her face. 

The superintendent clears his throat. “Jennifer.” 

“Please,” the blonde chuckles, “call me Jenn. We were friends once, after all.”

An audible gasp goes up in the audience. Even EJ isn’t able to stifle the noise of surprise that escapes his throat. Jenn raises an eyebrow. “Ben, didn’t you tell them?” 

Mazzara leans into his microphone. “I didn’t have the opportunity,” he deadpans. 

“That’s a shame,” the actress tuts. “Mind if I share?” 

“Please.”

“Ben and I were classmates here at East High many moons ago,” Jenn elaborates. “And not only classmates, but friends! As I recall, you were responsible for developing the rope-and-pulley system that enabled our lead to fly in  _ Mary Poppins _ , isn’t that right?”

Mazzara sighs into his microphone, but there is a hint of fondness in his tone underlying his exasperation. “You remember correctly, Jenn. Now will you get to the point, please?” 

Jenn smiles primly. “The point, my dear, is you of all people should understand the value of the arts. As I recall, you and I became friends backstage. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t have very many friends up until then.”

“Me neither,” the superintendent admits. 

Nini’s eyes flit from Jenn to Mazzara and back, making herself dizzy with how quickly she scans their faces for any sign that this is a joke or an act. Her brain can’t process so much new information at once. Jenn and Mazzara were  _ classmates _ ?  _ Friends _ ? Mazzara went to this school? He was part of the stage crew? She bites down on her bottom lip, wondering if she can will herself to wake up from the bizarre fever dream she’s found herself in. 

Jenn’s floaty, soprano voice takes on an icy edge. “Shame on you,” she says. “Shame on you for robbing this school and these kids of the same opportunities we had. Shame on you for denying them the friendships and experiences that made our high school years meaningful.” 

“You misunderstand,” Mazzara defends. “I never set out to eliminate the arts entirely. But the fact is, STEM programs are where the money is right now. It’s what the state wants to see, and it’s how we can get additional grants to bring East High to the next level. I had to fund innovation and invest in those programs somehow, so I cut budgets in less vital areas to do it. I would have reinstated the funding later if I could. It was a temporary sacrifice.”

Ricky frowns, feeling a surge of anger in his veins. A temporary sacrifice? A temporary sacrifice would be asking the drama club to hold a few extra bake sales to raise money. He wants to shake the superintendent and tell him that the arts aren’t “less vital,” that cutting the musical isn’t the same as asking them to get by with a few less pencils or notebooks. He turns to Jenn and sees her eyes flash with the same anger.

“But is it a worthwhile sacrifice?” Jenn challenges. “Looking around the room at all these assembled faces, I would have to argue it isn’t. It doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing, Ben. Change is gradual.” 

Mazzara rubs his temples and sighs. “Perhaps. But it’s out of my control now. The proposal is before the board. There’s nothing more I can do.” 

Mariela leans over, practically shouting into the microphone still clutched in Jenn’s hands. “Pontius Pilate! God will not let you wash your hands of this!” 

“Excuse me?” the superintendent looks perplexed.

Jenn smiles. “She’s quoting  _ The Crucible _ . You’d know that if you looked at your own English curriculum.” 

“It’s not too late, Mr. Mazzara,” Ashlyn pipes up. “According to the school board bylaws, a proposal can be rescinded anytime up until it is put to a formal vote.” 

“Well look at that,” Jenn adds. “You can undo all of this right now. Come on, Ben. The entire community is here. Why not send them home happy?” 

The two former friends stare one another down as Principal Gutierrez dabs at his face with a handkerchief, his eyes darting around the room. Mazzara’s mouth is set in a grim line.

Nini draws a deep, shuddering breath as the impasse plays out before her. Jenn may be determined, connected, and famous, but Mazzara still gets the final say. And from the look on his face, he isn’t budging. Jenn told her she had important things to say. Well, she has one more thing to add. 

“Jenn,” Nini clears her throat, hoping her peep doesn’t sound as pathetic to everyone else as it does to her own ears. “May I?” She gestures for the microphone. “I have something I’d like to say.” 

“Of course,” Jenn smiles, handing her the device. 

Nini takes it, feels the handle that is now warm from being gripped by dozens of hands. She holds the device so close to her lips that her own ragged breaths are audible through the speakers. She’s positive that if she held it a little closer to her chest, everyone would be able to hear how rapidly her heart is racing. She didn’t discuss this part with Ricky. She didn’t want him to worry or, worse, promise to go in with her. Because what she’s about to say is the biggest gamble of her life. 

“Mr. Mazzara,” she says, ignoring the thickness in her throat and the way her voice sounds strangled. “I think we’ve more than made our case that the arts are vital to education. You’ve heard it from your students, from your staff, and now from your alumni and friends. If, after all of that, you aren’t moved…” Her voice trails off. Her head pounds in time with her quickened pulse. A chill runs up her spine, causing her to tense because once she speaks these words into existence, she can never take them back, no matter the consequences. “If East High no longer supports the arts,” she begins again, “then I think - no, I  _ will  _ have to move on from my position here.”

Ricky’s breath hitches beside her. Gravity descends upon the room, heavy and stunned. She’s well aware of the fact that Mazzara could call her on her ultimatum and demand her resignation. In fact, she expects it. But she’s spent too many nights losing sleep. She’s spent too long agonizing over the injustice, and if the board won’t listen to her, then she cannot stay in good conscience. 

In a second, Ricky is at her side, grasping her hand with his. He leans over and speaks into the microphone still clutched in her hand. “Ms. Salazar-Roberts is right,” he says, his voice steady and full of fire. “How long until the entire music department is viewed as a temporary sacrifice? How long until any of us are seen that way? If the board wants to suspend funding to the arts, then count me out.” 

Gina steps forward, taking Nini’s other hand and the microphone. “Mr. Mazzara, look around,” she says gently. “Look at how united the school is for this cause. Look at how many people you’ll be affecting with your new policies. There’s no reason why STEM and the arts can’t work in tandem. A good friend taught me that. And if you can look all of us in the eye and say that what we value in our school community doesn’t matter, then you can expect my resignation, too.” 

The superintendent eyes the trio onstage pensively as EJ steps forward, flanking Ricky and linking hands with him. Gina grins as she passes him the mic.

“We’re a team,” EJ says, glancing up and down the line at his coworkers. “And that means that if you want to take one of us, you have to take all of us.” 

Seb steps forward, taking EJ’s other hand. “Me, too,” he says resolutely, offering Carlos a winning smile in the audience. 

“And me,” Ashlyn says. 

One-by-one, students and teachers link hands, professing their intention and sending the superintendent a very clear message. 

“It’s us or STEM, Mr. Mazzara,” Ricky says, a trace of a smile on his lips. The entire room is linked by joined hands. “What’s your decision?” 

Jenn smirks and arches a brow at the superintendent. 

The man sighs and leans into the tabletop microphone in front of him. Ricky squeezes Nini’s hand, reassuring her that whatever happens next, they’re in this together. She squeezes back and doesn’t let go, even as both of their palms grow progressively sweatier with nerves. 

“I admit,” Mazzara begins, looking at no one in particular and yet somehow seeming to make eye contact with each of them at the same time, “that I had not fully considered the impact of this revised budget.” He waves the meeting agenda - a veritable booklet full of revised line items - for emphasis. “I truly didn’t realize how important East High’s arts programs were to so many students. And that is my fault. I didn’t take the time to get to know this school and its community. I assumed that I knew better, and that what I was doing was for the best. Not once did I ask anyone - students or staff - what they felt was in their own best interest. And for that, I apologize.

I see now that the arts at East High are a valuable tradition, and one that we should be proud of. One that we should foster and promote as much as we promote our cutting-edge STEM programs and our championship-winning athletics teams.”

He turns to his fellow board members. “Seeing as we haven’t voted on this new budget yet, I would like to make an amendment to the agenda. I would like to rescind the proposed budget in favor of adopting the previously-agreed upon budget from the start of the school year. Those in favor?” 

Every member of the board smiles and raises their hand in agreement. 

Mazzara smirks. “Those opposed?” He pauses for a beat, noting that no one has raised their hand in opposition to his proposal. “Then the motion carries. We will reinstate the original budget post-haste.” 

The cafeteria erupts into thunderous applause as Ricky throws his arms around Nini, pulling her into the tightest of hugs and rocking her side-to-side so enthusiastically that she fears they’ll both fall off the stage. She shuts her eyes and allows every warm feeling to wash over her. The way the weight falls off her shoulders with their triumph. The sweet relief that comes with Mazzara’s proclamation. The immense, heart-swelling, vein-searing, electric love that fills her every time Ricky Bowen wraps his arms around her and holds her close. She can feel his wild heartbeat as it beats against his ribcage. 

Mazzara’s voice, deep and even but devoid of the severity that normally punctuated his statements cuts through the noise. “Thank you,” he says, and the crowd quickly hushes. “Thank you for providing me with much-needed perspective that I hadn’t previously considered. In my position, it’s rare to be considered anything but right. People rarely dare to question or challenge you. But being right and going unchallenged are two very different things. I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten that the very purpose of education is to question and to challenge. You’ve all taught me a valuable lesson today. And Mariela,” the superintendent calls. 

Nini turns back to Mariela and smiles, reaching out and grabbing hold of her wrist. She gently tugs her to the front of the stage. For a moment, she catches a glimpse of the shy girl her student once was. She shrinks away from the front of the stage ever-so-slightly, but in the next moment she straightens up, puffing out her chest and jutting out her chin with bravado. 

“I understand that you’re the primary orchestrator of this revue?” 

She nods slowly. “It started as an idea of mine, but I can’t take all the credit. I can’t even take most of it. The student body and the faculty pulled together to make this happen. My friends and my mentors helped shape this movement.” 

“Indeed,” Mazzara says. “But they couldn’t have done it without a tenacious leader to unite them. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that those who dare to rebel today become the leaders and changemakers of tomorrow. I know that greatness lies in you,” he smiles slyly, “but remember from here on in: history has its eyes on you. I look forward to the things you’ll accomplish in your senior year here and well beyond these hallways. The same goes for all of you. It’s clear to me now that the legacy of East High lies not in STEM programs. It lies not in athletics or even in our arts. It lies in our students’ and our staff’s ability to change the world.” 

Jenn swoops in on that note, taking the microphone. “And I’ve got just the place to start,” she announces. “You see, Ben isn’t the only one who learned something from all of you. I realized that if I’m going to preach about creating opportunities for the next generation of artists, I need to put my money where my mouth is. So I’m doing just that. I’d like to announce the creation of the Rising Star Foundation, a fully-funded nonprofit that will be based right here in Salt Lake City, where we will run courses in acting, dancing, singing, writing, every art form you can imagine. Our goal is to offer free programs for young people to hone their skills and, when the time comes, to connect them to others in the industry who can help them make a name for themselves. And our first project will be an endowment for East High’s art programs.” She smiles softly at Ben. “Maybe we can have the best of both worlds: innovative and cutting-edge STEM programs alongside some of the most outstanding arts programs Utah has ever seen.” 

Nini’s jaw drops and she turns to Ricky, who looks equally shocked. Beside her, Gina lets out a delighted giggle and EJ grins broadly. A round of applause erupts around the cafeteria. 

“I’m not done!” Jenn announces, raising her voice ever-so-slightly. “This new foundation will need a director. It is my pleasure to announce that Mr. Carlos Rodriguez will be returning to Salt Lake City to run our organization as president of the Rising Star Foundation. He’ll be working directly with some of Salt Lake City’s brightest up-and-coming talent.” She turns to Mariela, blue eyes shining. “And we’d like you to be the first participant. It’s abundantly clear that your future is bright as an artist, as a leader, and as an inspiration. What do you say?” 

Mariela looks from Jenn to Nini and back, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. Nini nods to her encouragingly. “Will I get to stay at East High?” 

“Of course,” Jenn says. “We’ll be using a community center model. All of our programs will be offered after school and during the weekends. And I suspect you won’t be the only member of East High’s student body to be part of our inaugural class.” 

The girl nods, her smile wide and eager. “Then I would love to.” 

* * *

Every triumph feels destined to be celebrated here, in this corner booth at Denny’s with these people. Ricky glances around the table and smiles as Kourtney and EJ debate the finer points of bacon versus sausage in their Grand Slam while Gina referees. Big Red tries to teach Ashlyn how to make her straw wrapper into a worm. 

“I can’t believe you’re finally coming home,” Seb says to Carlos, gripping his arm more tightly, as if he might slip away if he lets go.

“I told you I was working on a contingency plan,” the dark-haired man responds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. 

“And what exactly was the contingency plan?” Seb questions.

“Well, if your stunning performances didn’t win Mazzara over, Jenn gave me permission to hire all of you as full-time instructors at the Foundation,” he says. “But I had a feeling we weren’t gonna need to resort to that.” He slides his gaze towards Nini and Ricky, who are pressed together in the middle of the booth with their hands intertwined. “You all proved what underdogs are capable of last year. I always had faith in you all.” 

“Okay, but does the offer to instruct still stand anyway?” EJ questions. “Because I got nothing going on on weekends till November and it kinda sounds like fun.” 

Ashlyn swats him playfully. “And what, pray tell, is your art?” 

He fixes his cousin with a teasing look. “I can teach them exactly one song and half a dance routine that Seb taught me.” 

“It was the electric slide,” the blond murmurs quietly. 

Ricky chuckles. “Cut EJ some slack, guys. Anybody can be a musician. Besides,” he looks over at his friend, “you kinda killed the whole Troy Bolton thing up there.” 

“See?” EJ gestures. “Even the music teacher agrees.”

Carlos laughs. “Guys,  _ of course _ you’re welcome to be part of the Foundation. There’s no team more qualified.” 

Their meals come. Nini chastises Rickky mildly for ordering a burger  _ again _ , but steals a sweet potato fry nonetheless. Big Red sticks a French fry on either side of his mouth and imitates a walrus, winning a giggle from Ashlyn and a look of disgust from Kourtney. 

“You gonna tell me to get our waitress’s number this time?” Gina asks, shooting a teasing glance at Nini and Ashlyn. 

The redhead throws up her hands. “I mean, she’s like fifty but hey, if you’re into that...” 

Gina laughs. “Maybe if she was, like, twenty-five years younger.” 

Ricky glances at Nini quizzically, but she just smiles and shakes her head and tells him he would’ve had to have been in LA to get it. 

* * *

At the end of the night, they get up slowly, stretching and yawning and slowing their movements to savor a few more minutes together. EJ volunteers to pay the check and goes to settle the bill, and they all walk out to the parking lot together. 

“I told you we should use our powers for good next time,” EJ says to Gina as they head towards their cars. 

She nods and smiles. “A pleasure scheming with you as always, Coach Caswell.” She gets into her car, starts the engine, and glances around as EJ waves and Ashlyn puts her car into reverse. This is home, she realizes. Home is a Denny’s parking lot. It’s the cafeteria in the throes of rebellion. It’s Ashlyn’s playful ribbing and EJ’s good-natured smile and Seb’s twinkling eyes. It’s Carlos, pretending to be salty when he really loves them all and Big Red’s non sequiturs that never fail to set everyone laughing. It’s Kourtney, fretting and tutting and straightening their outfits to show that she cares, and it’s Ricky and Nini shepherding their little family, drawing them all together. The warmest, most content feeling fills her as she puts on her turn signal and merges onto the road.

* * *

Ricky and Nini linger on the sidewalk, watching their friends pull out one-by-one, their taillights retreating into the night. Then, with soft smiles and interlocked fingers, they make their way toward the car. He opens the passenger door for her and for once, she doesn’t protest that she can do it herself. 

The headlights illuminate the dark roadway and the dotted white lines pass by in a blur. Ricky’s hand is still joined with hers over the center console, and she reaches over with her free hand to turn the heat up a little as an early-fall chill settles over them. Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran croon softly through the speakers. 

“ _ All I know is we said hello and your eyes look like coming home. _ _   
_ _ All I know is a simple name and everything has changed _ .” 

“We won,” Ricky says, his voice soft and filled with awe. Victory has always been short-lived: temporary and fleeting, always met with a setback or a disappointment around the corner. But something about this triumph feels different. It feels final. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t wonder what new battle awaits him. It doesn’t matter. He’s surprised by how quiet victory sounds. It doesn’t sound like cheers and fireworks and cannons and shouts from rooftops. It sounds like a Taylor Swift song on the radio and the muted hum of an engine and Nini’s soft breathing and the promise of the two of them returning to the home they share. 

“We won,” she echoes, a bemused smile ghosting across her face as she slides her eyes toward him and squeezes his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left to go after this! I can't promise that it'll be up quickly - I'm working on it, and I'll have it out as quickly as I can, but there's still a lot to do at home. (Our couch isn't coming for another two weeks, for example :( ) But I will get it out as quickly as I can. In the meantime, I also wrote a oneshot inspired by "betty" from the new Taylor Swift album, which has been the soundtrack for my unpacking. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts, and I'm so glad to be back!


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is... the final chapter of this story! I seriously can't thank you all enough for your kind words, thoughtful feedback, and enthusiastic encouragement every step of the way. When I set out to write this sequel, I had no idea what the world would be like by the time I began. As I wrote this story, I was reminded more than ever of the ways in which stories - reading and writing them - has the power to save us from the things going wrong around us. 
> 
> Thank you for taking this journey with me. Thank you to all those who reached out on here or on other social media platforms to share what this story has meant to you. This work is dedicated to every reader, because it is you who have motivated me to write this. I love you all.

They forgot to close the curtains last night, and daylight floods Nini’s vision the moment she opens her eyes. The morning is misty and overcast, and the almost-bare branches of the tree outside her -  _ their  _ \- bedroom window are shrouded in fog. Ricky’s arm is draped loosely over her abdomen, and she can feel the deep, even rise and fall of his chest as he inhales and exhales. His warmth envelops her, shielding her from the chilly October morning, and she allows her eyes to flutter shut for a moment, taking in the quiet. The birds have migrated to warmer climates, and it’s too early on a Saturday morning for there to be traffic. The room is filled with the sound of Ricky’s deep breaths, the quiet hush of the heater, and nothing else.

His name is on the deed. It took several weeks and a couple of meetings with an attorney (Ricky’s mom recommended an old law school friend, and for once, Ricky set aside his pride and followed his mother’s suggestion), but the new deed finally arrived yesterday with their names printed side-by-side on the line labeled “property owner.” NINA SALAZAR-ROBERTS and RICHARD THOMAS BOWEN. Ricky ordered new mailing labels for them that night itself, and she likes that they’ll soon have concrete evidence of their shared home. She can’t wait to stick those labels on holiday cards to their friends and family, on RSVPs to events. She might even start mailing their bill payments, just to have an excuse to use them more.

Though she’s lived in this condo for nearly three years now, it didn’t truly feel like home until Ricky passed through its doors for the first time, and every day since, it’s felt like everything belonged to the both of them. Like their worlds had always intersected and coalesced.  _ Their  _ bed in  _ their  _ bedroom.  _ Their  _ couch in  _ their  _ living room.  _ Their  _ keyboard and  _ their  _ guitar and  _ their  _ cars. And now it’s on-paper official. It hadn’t even felt like a question when she asked him to move in with her. It felt like an inevitability. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. They aren’t playing house anymore, they’re living it. 

She lets herself revel in all the possibilities: the meals they’ll cook in the slightly-too-small-for-two-people kitchen, the holidays they’ll host with their friends and family scattered from the kitchen into the dining room into the living room, the cold winter days they’ll spend curled on the couch beneath the blankets, the laughs they’ll share, and the way it will feel to wake up beside each other every morning.

“Morning, lover,” Ricky sighs, his voice deep from sleep as he blinks his eyes open, squinting against the daylight. 

“Good morning,” she answers, turning her head so that she can see him out of her periphery and accidentally brushing him with a faceful of her hair in the process. She giggles when he scrunches his eyes shut and chuckles at the ticklish sensation.

Nini puts the coffee on while Ricky makes breakfast, humming an Elliott Smith song to himself as he uses the spatula to prod at a pancake. He flips it expertly, and Nini refuses to indulge the shit-eating grin he gives her when he catches the pancake dead-center in the pan. 

“We should have a housewarming party,” she tells him, sipping her coffee.

Ricky slides a plate across the table towards her. “But it’s not a new house,” he points out.

“Maybe not on paper,” she replies, a smile tugging at her lips. “But something about you living here makes it feel new.” 

It’s his turn to smile, soft and easy, and he lifts his mug to his lips. “Alright, then,” he murmurs, “a housewarming it is.” 

* * *

Ricky rides the shopping cart like a skateboard, pushing off with his right foot as he trails Nini from aisle to aisle while she bags apples and checks the expiration dates on the almond milk and debates the merits of two different brands of brown rice. He smiles to himself when she remembers to pick up the clementines he likes to bring to work, and they consult the recipes they agreed on for the week to determine what else they’ll need. He successfully sneaks a box of Coco Puffs into the cart when she isn’t looking, but has less luck when he picks up a case of Red Bull in the drink aisle.

“Ricky!” Nini laughs as he surreptitiously tries to lower the box into the shopping cart. He freezes midway, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “You do  _ not  _ need that much caffeine. Or sugar. I wouldn’t be able to handle you.” 

“Please,” he scoffs playfully. “My sugar and caffeine tolerance is higher than you think. Big Red and I used to exist on this stuff in college. One time, I drank a whole case in a day and I swear I could taste colors.” 

“All the more reason to put it back,” she replies, gently lifting the case from his hands.

“Don’t you wanna taste colors?” he whines.

“Some secrets aren’t meant for mere mortals to discover.” 

They compromise on strawberry Jell-O and Oreos in the snack aisle. Double Stuf, because even Nini can’t refuse a guilty pleasure. 

“You’re a bad influence, Ricky Bowen,” she teases, setting the package in the cart.

“Hey!” he says with mock indignation. “We’re being good! Look, I even picked up carrots. Don’t we deserve to live a little?” 

Nini worms her way into his arms. “You’re right,” she says, leaning back to look him in the face. “We do deserve to live a little.” 

He presses a kiss to the side of her head. “Together,” he adds. “We deserve to live a little... _ together _ .” 

* * *

They host their housewarming a week later, with all of their friends gathered in the living room. Gina, Ashlyn, Carlos, and Seb squeeze together on the sofa while EJ sprawls out on the floor and Big Red flops down on the ottoman. Kourtney sweeps through the front door with an armful of garment bags

“Okay, ya’ll, I need a favor,” she announces. 

“What’s all this?” Nini asks with an amused smirk as she sets a bowl of Doritos on the coffee table. Big Red immediately reaches for a handful while Ricky lays out drinks on the dining table.

“So remember a while back when I had to delay the launch of my new line?” Kourtney waits for the others to nod. “Well, I managed to find a new supplier and the samples just came in. It’s too short notice to put together a whole fashion show, but I thought of something better. I’m launching an ad campaign and I want all of you to be in it as the new faces of Kourtney with a K.” 

Carlos leaps to his feet. “At long last! My beauty and talent have been recognized.” Seb playfully tugs him back down onto the couch. 

“You want us to be models?” Ricky asks.

“More or less,” Kourtney answers, reaching into her purse for her digital camera. “C’mon, guys. I couldn’t have come this far without the support of my friends. And that’s what the Kourtney with a K brand is all about: diverse faces, real people, and good friendship.” She brandishes the camera. “Time to get your smize on.” 

Gina grins as she rises to her feet. “I can’t wait to add these photos to my wall.” 

Kourtney passes around leggings and joggers, tank tops and hoodies in a variety of bright purples and yellows and oranges and reds. The bedroom and the bathroom become dressing rooms, and the living room becomes a runway. The candids come out best: Nini leaning against Ricky on the couch while EJ tells them about the best game of his college career, his eyes alight as he recalls the story. Ashlyn feeding Big Red a chip, throwing her head back in laughter as a crumb falls from his mouth. Seb showing Carlos and Gina a new dance move, their arms outstretched and legs spread shoulder-width apart. An entire group shot taken on a timer, with Kourtney in the middle of the group as they all laugh at something Big Red says. 

Nini scrolls through the photos on the camera, smiling. There is life in each shot, and the images so perfectly capture her friends’ personalities. Gina’s confident intelligence and Big Red’s impeccable sense of humor. Ashlyn’s quiet warmth, Seb’s sincere sweetness, and Carlos’s dauntlessness. EJ’s brotherly instincts. Kourtney’s bold fierceness. Ricky’s earnest, affectionate nature, all rendered so perfectly in these stills. 

“They came out perfect,” she says, handing the camera back to Kourtney.

“So perfect, I almost want to keep them for myself,” her best friend says.

“Don’t,” Nini replies. “You should share them. I hope everyone who sees these pictures can relate to them. I hope everyone finds friends as great as ours.” 

They order pizza and eat it sprawled out across the living room floor. The Monopoly game that was started at EJ’s behest has long-since been abandoned after Carlos, in a fit of rage at losing out on Park Place, flipped the board - much to everyone else’s amusement. 

“So I was thinking,” EJ says around a mouthful of pepperoni-and-soy-cheese, “we should all do something together over Winter Break. I hear Aspen is nice.” 

“Isn’t it a little early to be thinking about Winter Break?” Ashlyn asks. “It’s not even Thanksgiving, yet.” 

“I’m always two steps ahead, Ash,” her cousin replies, tapping the side of his head. “Besides. Airbnbs book up pretty quickly during the holidays. What do you guys say? Family vacation to Colorado?” 

Ricky considers it for a moment, smiling inwardly at the fact that EJ called it a family vacation. “You know, my dad lives in Denver but I’ve never actually made it out to Aspen,” he muses aloud. 

“Great,” EJ claps his hands together and smiles brightly. “It’s settled. I’ll send you guys Airbnb links.” 

“Okay,” Ashlyn giggles with a shrug. “I guess we’re celebrating the holidays together.” 

“Let’s just try to survive the next few months, first,” Carlos says. “The Rising Star Foundation just bought out the old community center next to the El Rey and let me tell you, I have never seen so many cockroaches in my life. And I lived in  _ New York _ . Not to mention Sebby and I need to find an apartment now that I’m moving back to Salt Lake.” 

“You didn’t tell me you guys were moving in together!” Nini says. 

Seb shrugs shyly. “Recent development. We didn’t want to steal your thunder. Besides, it might not happen at all at the rate we’re going. Who knew it would be this hard to find a place we both like?”

“Compromise is the foundation of all strong relationships,” Gina says sagely, earning her a surprised laugh from Ashlyn. 

“Okay, fortune cookie,” Carlos answers. “But compromise doesn’t help when everything we’ve seen is either way out of our budget or painfully run-down.” 

“You know, now that Ricky’s officially moved out, I’m accepting roommate applications,” Big Red arches a brow. A long silence follows as Seb and Carlos exchange a look, and then laughter goes up across the entire room. “What? Was it something I said?” the redhead asks, looking around in confusion.

Ricky feels his heart swell as he looks around the room at his friends - his family. He pulls Nini closer to him, his smile broadening when she leans her head against his shoulder. Warmth spreads throughout his body, comforting and familiar. There is no better feeling in the world than sharing this place with the people he loves. There is nothing better than the sound of their laughter, the contagious feeling of their joy, and the fullness in his chest that practically moves him to tears.

* * *

From: Benjamin Mazzara

To: Richard Bowen, Nina Salazar-Roberts

Subject: Spring Musical

Ricky and Nini,

It is my pleasure to announce that your request for a spring musical production of “The Little Mermaid” is approved. Please forward details regarding show dates, rehearsal times, and prop/tech/venue requirements. I am looking forward to seeing what the East High Drama Club is capable of. If the revue was any indication, I am certain you will achieve a standing ovation.

Best regards,

  
Ben

* * *

Ricky reads the email once, then again to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him. He lets out a whoop so loud, Nini nearly drops the plate she’s washing. “I’ve never seen anyone this excited over wiping down the counter,” she teases, shutting off the tap and wheeling around to face him.

“Not that,” he says, shaking his head, the sponge he was using all but abandoned. “Mazzara just got back to us about the spring musical.”

“And?” Nini’s eyes light up hopefully.

“See for yourself,” he answers, turning his phone around so that she can read along. Her eyes flick back and forth across the screen and he beams when her jaw drops by the end of the email.

“Ricky!” she exults, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. “We did it! This is really happening!”

“We won,” he murmurs almost disbelievingly, as if he could wake up at any minute. He isn’t sure what he was expecting. Perhaps Benjamin Mazzara would have a change of heart and revert to his old ways. But this email is proof positive that the superintendent meant what he said. It’s the final, decisive proof of their victory. The revue-lution has succeeded. Ricky drops a kiss to the top of Nini’s head. He wishes the email had come sooner, when everyone was still here. He wishes they could all celebrate this victory together, too, but he settles for taking a screenshot and posting it in their group chat along with three exclamation points, and he’s eager for Monday to come so that he can share the news with the students who made it all possible in the first place. 

_ Does this mean I get to choreograph for the Little Mermaid after all?!  _ Seb asks.

_ I’m glad I didn’t throw out those staging concepts for the Atlantis-themed sets I was working on _ , Ashlyn adds.

_ EJ Caswell, stage crew manager at your service _ , EJ writes.

A moment later, Gina adds,  _ And I’ve got you on tech crew _ .

_ Kourtney with a K is ready to create some unique costumes. I’ve always wanted to try out something mermaid-y.  _

_ I knew you would do it! Let me know how I can help!  _ Carlos texts.

_ Me too _ , Big Red adds.

_ We couldn’t have done this without all of you _ , Nini says. 

_ Seriously,  _ Ricky concludes,  _ this victory is yours as much as it is anyone else’s.  _

* * *

The house is quiet. Ricky used to dread silence. Before his parents’ divorce, silence was a surefire indicator that a fight was either about to begin, or had just concluded. For hours after, the house would sit in shell-shocked silence, as if the very walls couldn’t believe what had just been said. After he moved to Chicago, the silence was an unbearable and infinite reminder of how lonely he was, broken only by his guitar or the music in his headphones. Sometimes, he would go for several days without speaking to his mother or to Todd. Sometimes, he forgot what his own voice sounded like.

This is a different type of quiet. This is a content sort of quiet, draped in something soft and warm, where the only sound is the occasional bark of a dog outside, the stiff October breeze rustling the bare branches, and the distant whoosh of late-night traffic. Nini curls into his side and pulls the blanket up over both of them. Once again, Ricky is struck by the unfamiliar sense of fullness that wells up in his chest. It feels stable and safe. It took every single misstep, every single setback, and every single triumph to bring them to this moment: sharing a bed and a home, a refuge for themselves and their friends. Nini would describe it as the universe handing them an opportunity. He’s more certain than ever that it is the greatest opportunity he has ever taken.

He smiles down at Nini in the dark and catches the way her eyelids flutter open, her eyelashes tickling his cheek, her lips curling upward as she grins sleepily at him. He kisses her softly and pulls her tighter against him. “I think I kinda, you know, Nini Salazar-Roberts.” 

She smiles against his lips. “I think I kinda, you know, too, Ricky Bowen.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes "Do You Hear The People Sing." Originally, this AU would have ended here, but thanks to all of you and your comments, I'm excited to announce that there will be not one but TWO additional entries before we close out this AU. (I've already dropped a couple hints in this story as to what those stories will involve). Look for the next story to debut very soon. 
> 
> Lots of musicals include an epilogue, so there isn't one in particular that I had in mind here. I realize I forgot to include what the last chapter's title came from, but it's "Grease" in case you didn't know.
> 
> Once again, I can't properly convey just how much every single one of you has meant to me. In a time where we are increasingly isolated from those in our day-to-day lives, you've given me connection and friendship, and you've kept me sane. Thank you, and I hope to hear from you in the next couple of days when the new story drops! But before all that, how about leaving me your final thoughts?


End file.
